Guitars & Strawberry
by crashmypartyhard
Summary: "All Things Music". That was the name of her shop. When I first saw her she had the cliché of all seventies hairstyles: blonde, pin-straight, cut straight at the bottom, no bangs. And when she first saw me it was with those blue eyes. How more seventies-love-story can you get?
1. Prologue Trapped In The Aftershock

When I roll over, my eyes are blinded by the sunlight coming through my window, now free of the boards nailed over it all those years ago…

(Forty-three years, to be exact.)

I shield my eyes from the light, and, groaning with the effort, I sit up. I stretch as much as my frail body will allow, and I rub the sleep from my eyes. When I reach blindly but out of muscle memory for my top hat, which should be on my dresser because I set it there every night before I go to bed, it isn't there. An exasperated sigh escapes my parched lips, and I scan first my dresser, and then catch sight of the brim peeking out from underneath my bed.

I lug myself out of bed with another sigh—not out of exasperation, but out of the little sparks of pain I receive because of my growing arthritis and my bones just becoming old and weak. Slowly but surely, I kneel, and I fetch my top hat from underneath my bed; I wipe away the dust and put it on my balding head.

I stand after some effort, and I make my way to my bathroom, mechanically brushing my teeth and flossing, taking my shower and re-dressing in my faded green clothes, then going downstairs to make myself pancakes.

The great memories I have associated with the cooked batter have faded and now leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, along with the regret that weighs heavy on my shoulders as well as my soul.

I clench and unclench my left hand to and from a fist, shuddering for a moment, but that hand still shakes, like it's trapped in some kind of aftershock. I sit still for a long and agonizing moment before, first pulling the fingers and then the whole glove from my arm, I reveal my pale hand. I must take a moment before I can look down to where I carved those letters into my fingertips all those years ago…

(Forty-three years…)

(To be exact.)

I stare for a long while at my fingers, examining the precise insanity I engraved in my fingertips with that dull knife:

**_GREED_**

Five letters fit perfectly onto each of them.

…Greed.

_Greed._

_That's what drove them away…_

_That's what drove __**her**__ away…_

My straight mouth seeps into a frown, my eyes shut, and my lanky figure shakes with silent sobs and the air reverberates with the sounds of my soft intakes of air. My tears are absorbed by my right glove. I curl my left hand into a fist and dig my nails into my palms, not caring about the pain.

_It's the only way I know I'm alive, after all…_

A knock at my door snaps me to attention, and I panic inside, standing so quickly out of surprise my chair teeters and then hits the floor with a _thud_, causing an eruption of dust and me to stop crying from the shock.

I stand there, thinking it is my imagination, when another knock disrupts the silence. This breaks my still spell, and, after much hesitation, and a moment to wipe my eyes, I find myself opening the door.

I look straight forward and then down with an, "Oh."

_That's right._

_The Lorax is back._

He raises a yellow-orange eyebrow at me, inviting himself in and walking around my still-spindly legs. "Thought you went and took a dirt nap on me for a moment there, kid." He sounds genuinely worried for at least a few seconds, then notices my frying pan, and glances back at me with a, "Can I…have some of those fluffy round things…?"

I smile and begin to reach for it when he grabs my hand in mid-reach. My _left_ hand with the _scars_ you can_ still read as clear as day._

He flips it palm-up and turns his head to an angle so he can read it. I removed my gaze from him as soon as he grabbed my hand. There is a bout of silence, and I slowly turn my gaze back to him, fearful of his expression.

But all it shows is question.

I feel how tense I am, but continue to let the intension make me sore. "…I would say that it's none of your business…" my voice's volume is considerably lower. "But it's all of your business."

I take a breath to tell him about it, but he stops me when he asks, "Do you remember Strawberry?"

I stop. Moving, breathing, thinking. But I'm remembering. Pancakes and smiles. _That Warm Feeling_ and overly loud voices. Stoned and dehydrated. I _remember. _

_I remember and it's okay. _

"Straw…of course I remember…"


	2. All Things Music or The Meeting

_"All Things Music". That was the name of her shop. When I first saw her she had the cliché of all seventies hairstyles: blonde, pin-straight, cut straight at the bottom, no bangs. And when she first saw me it was with those blue eyes. How more seventies-love-story can you get?_

My shoes squeak as I walk into the store, fedora hiding my face more than my bad hair day (which of course is everyday). Thneed wrapped around my neck, I look nervously around for guitar strings. The aisles are set close together, with things packed together, but neat and organized in the small space.

Just as I begin to enter the aisle marked "Guitars", a voice comes from behind me.

"You're looking for guitar strings?"

I peek over the corner for a moment and then take a step back, furrowing by brow and lifting my hat slightly. The first thing I see is her straight, dirty-blonde hair. Her face is slightly round, and her hand is neatly tucked underneath her chin as she reads a book set on the counter.

She looks up at me with blue eyes, eyebrows raised. "Did you hear me?"

I blink, bringing my hat's bill back down to its previous state. "Yeah." I'm sheepish.

She closes her book. "Come on over, they're here." She beckons with her hand.

I take a hesitant step forward, then a few more quick ones to the counter. I stand there as she casually moves the things around her, all a clutter. She wears a Mexican hooded poncho pullover, light skinny blue-jeans, ripped at the knee and the bottoms where they've encountered harshness. Her nails are chewed, probably from boredom.

"My name's Strawberry," she says without looking up. "If you question my name, my parents were hippies."

I'm surprised. Someone's actually trying to socialize with me?

Strawberry sighs deeply, becoming frustrated with not being able to find the strings. She stands up from her chair and pushes things around with her old shoes, lifting things up and puts them down in a different place.

"My name's… Once-Ler."

"Cool name." she replies straight away. Then she slams the guitar strings on the counter in front of me, putting her hands on her hips.

_She did that a lot—put her hands on her hips. Her middle was so skinny that when she did that, her hands wrapped around so they were almost touching, whether positioned forward or backward. When she was laughing or disappointed, she would cross her arms and look down so her hair would fall in her face._

_I got to see the disappointed one a lot._

"Is that all?"

I smile meekly and pull my wallet from my pocket, but when I begin to pull out some bills, I end up spilling everything from my wallet all over the counter. So I curse under my breath, hurriedly gathering it all and trying to keep change from falling from the counter.

Strawberry smiles and she helps catch the runaway pennies and dimes, and hands them to me. I hand her the money for the strings, and she smiles wider.

She points to my neck, where the Thneed is wrapped around. "Is that your invention?" the cash register drawer snaps closed after she sets the money inside.

I stare at her in disbelief, unraveling it from my neck as I reply. "Yes."

"And it's something that ieveryone/i needs?"

I smile, nodding. "Sure is."

She crosses her arms over her chest, lifting her head up and looking at me with interest. "Why?"

I smile wide, but then it falls, and I'm less excited. "You're just going to—"

"Make fun of you? Nope."

Strawberry replies so quickly—even cutting me off—that I must pause before I continue.

"This…This thing is a Thneed." I smile wide, saying, almost singing, "A Thneed's A-Fine-Something-That-All-People-Need! It's a shirt. It's a sock. It's a glove. It's a hat. But it has iother/i uses. Yes, far beyond that. You can use it for carpets. For pillows! For sheets! For curtains! Or covers for bicycle seats!"

Strawberry crosses her arms and laughs, looking down, hair falling in front of her face. My smile falters until I realize that I'm amusing her…but…she's actually iinterested/i.

"Do you…want to buy one?" Maybe I'm amusing her enough that she'll buy one out of interest or pity…

She looks up with slight surprise, but then she shakes her head. "Nah, I couldn't…"

I nod. "Yeah, I understand." I wrap it back around my neck.

"But I'll think about it."

_This girl._ I look at her for a while. _Why does she cease to surprise me?_

I smile.

It's a light smile.

I know I'm amused by this girl.

"I should get going." I say.

She nods, tapping the counter with her fingernails after she brings her arms from crossing her chest. "Alright." She pauses before she adds, "Come back if you need anything."

I walk out.

But just as I do, she adds another thing.

"…Or if you don't."


	3. Can't Move

It took me a while to get back to the store. Maybe a few weeks. I think Strawberry almost lost hope until I came back. I definitely could tell she was lonely by the way she said "or if you don't". She wanted someone to talk to.

_And I guess I somehow made the cut._

I

The next time I see Strawberry it's the middle of October and my Thneed is now used to keep me warm. My fall coat and fedora are comfy in the moderate air as I walk down the sidewalk, and the local people in long coats with the collars up to their ears see the Thneed and snicker, but I ignore them. Then the next person I pass stops, but I keep going.

The voice shocks me, and at first I don't know what to think.

"Still not sell that Thneed yet?"

I glance back and then stop, turning around. It's Strawberry. She wears a scarf wrapped around her neck, and her hair's in a neat ponytail. Her cliché eyes even smile like her mouth, or maybe it's reflecting the one that should probably be on my face.

I kind of look down and then look back up at her again, and with thinned lips I shake my head.

She pauses, then kind of laughs. "You know, I'm a bit worried you won't sell that thing."

I kind of smile. "Yeah…me too."

We kind of stand there for a moment and the shops that line both sides of the street are buzzing with the few commuters that dare to come from their home into the frigid air. Strawberry shoves her hands in her pockets just as I disregard all possible humiliation and say:

"Want to go for a walk?"

She blinks, kind of confused, but I think she's grateful. The "or if you don't" still lingers in my mind somewhere, and, combined with my guy-ness, my stupid mouth decided to open and spew utter nonsense.

iYou do something stupid once because you're a guy./i

"Sure."

I'm sort of relieved, for one because I think that she feels lonely and she wants someone to talk to, and two because maybe I want someone to talk to. And, now that I think about it, living with the Lorax and trying to sell my Thneed has made me a little antisocial and no one's been anywhere near hospitable towards me except for Strawberry. Maybe…I need this.

She turns sideways, inviting me to lead. My face goes to something sort of a smile, and we walk side-by-side.

"So." I begin awkwardly. There's a pause. "How have you been?"

She shrugs. "Fine." She kind of glances up to me for a split second before looking forward again, asking, "You?"

"No Thneed selling for me…" I say, allowing myself a flicker of a smile.

Strawberry excuses herself for a moment for a cup of coffee, then re-joins me again. She's as eager for socialization as I am. But this is only an assumption.

"Your name is Strawberry." I blurt. "Any idea what brought it on?"

And we're walking again.

"My mom loves anything strawberry." She begins. "Maybe that's it. I've always wondered if the fruit I'm named after relates to my personality."

"After a while I might be able to answer that question."

She regards me with a careful look. "Yeah. That'd be nice." She says.

"You don't mind if I call you Straw, do you?"

"Call me anything. No one bothers with my name."

Two kids chasing each other pass us, and they stop and snicker at the freak show that is me, with the pink thing around my neck. They hurl insults at me, and when their sick needs are satisfied, they run off, giddy with pride. I feel this pain in the pit of me, where something should be. It's always been that way. I don't know what'll make it stop.

"How long have you lived here, Straw?" I test out my nickname for her on my tongue. It makes me think of Coca-Cola and bowling alleys.

"Since I was sixteen. My parents traveled all the time—they never really came home at all. So I made my decision and left. Came here and started my business. Back then it was just scraping by and still is."

I can tell she has more to say. My mouth doesn't even try to open because she needs to get something off her chest. So I help her lift it off.

Her mouth opens and closes when she notices I'm not replying. She seems tired. Maybe not fatigue-wise, but maybe with herself. "I…I'm twenty, now, but it doesn't feel like that long. I feel all weird living here where people don't acknowledge my name and barley even my shop. When I left home my parents were in Iceland. I'd love to go to Iceland. I'd love to travel the world, but I just can't…" she trails off and pauses, slowing to a stop. Her lips thin. I stop as well. The bench next to her seems to be a source of gravity and she leans toward it, sitting down on the ugly rotting wood.

"I just can't get myself to move."

I slowly sit down. Now that the weight is off, she needs support to slap a postage stamp on it and send it off. My advice or suggestions might not be the greatest, but I can still try.

"I've traveled a lot. Do you want me to tell you about it?"

Her quick glance is all I need.


	4. Coffee and Pie

i _You know, I remember seeing many smiles in my lifetime, but they were usually at the moment when you lock eyes with someone somewhere and you both give a small, polite, smirk sort of thing to the other. Nothing could match the smile I saw on Straw's face._/i

Her smile is beautiful. Her interest knows no bounds, and I can see how much she wants to make her dreams a reality. But there seems to be something holding her back. And I don't think it's money.

She shifts on the bench. "You traveled this long to make your product? But…why?"

I shrug. I'm not really comfortable with her, at least not enough, to tell her about my childhood. About my smug mother; my two idiot brothers that she only pays attention to. So I'm just going to avoid it for now. "I guess I want to show the world what a genius someone from southern Georgia and then Kentucky can become."

She giggles. "Any personal reasons, like money?" She says abruptly. But then she corrects herself. "You don't have to say, if you don't want to. I don't mind, Once-ler."

Now it's my time to giggle. "That sounds too formal. Call me something else."

She thinks it over. "Oncey?"

I think it over. It reminds me of all the times my mom's scolded, praised (which has always been very rare), and yelled for me over the years. But it has less of a southern drawl and more of a different sound. And I like it. It's at least something better than the other one. "Sure. Sounds fine."

She holds out her coffee. "Want to finish it?"

I smile and take it, sipping it. It's some kind of strong, mint flavor that's actually a little better than it might sound.

I stand to throw it away, and she does the same, both of her hands shoved in her pockets. "So." She pauses. "What would you like to do?"

I turn to face her, shrugging, my gloved hands warm. "I guess I'd like to go to someplace warm." This makes her laugh, and I do so, too, since it's obviously polite to laugh and I feel the beginnings of a bond forming between Straw and I.

We decide to go to the old diner next to her shop. She's closed it, and I wonder why she picked today to not work. Maybe she's just gotten somewhat tired of the old grind. Moving along day by day. Maybe that's made her want to travel.

I'm the one who asks for coffee—she's the one who asks for a slice of pie.

"So. Where _do _you live?"

I shrug. "I live in the Truffula meadow. I have this tent-thing that's pretty much like a house. More portable and maybe a little more spacious than an RV."

She nods. "Sounds nice. My apartment above my shop's a mess." She smiles, laughing slightly.

I smile. "I could take you to my house sometime, if you'd like."

While she's thinking it over, our orders arrive. A cream mug is placed in front of me, and a plate with a slice of apple pie is set in front of Straw.

"That'd be nice." She says when the waiter's gone.

There's a bout of silence until I ask, "Have you heard of the Lorax?"

Her face, at first, looks blank. Then her brow furrows, and then she's laughing. Arms crossed, head turned down and sideways, laughing.

"What?" I ask. Now I've straightened my posture and held out my hands, like that's going to help me. I'm utterly confused.

"You. _You_ brought the Lorax here?" She's serious for a second until she starts laughing again.

"_What?_"

"He's an urban legend! I've seen pictures and everything but…wow."

"An urban legend…?"

_iAnd that's how I found out that I could've prevented meeting the Lorax, making my Thneeds, and how I could've prevented all this. But then I'd have never met Straw. And that's almost the only good thing that's come out of all this. And maybe this guilt has helped me. But I've been isolated from everyone, everything, for so long, I have the tendency to think about it, and I have the tendency to want to go back and not ever have met Straw. _

_But maybe that would've been worse. Maybe Straw has been what's been keeping me alive. _

_Well. There was that time just after when…_

_No. That's ridiculous. Insane. Look at what this isolation's done to me./i_

"When I first came here, this guy just passed away, and he was the last one to bring the Lorax here. And now you're the second. Smooth move."

I shrug, trying to defend myself. "I didn't know! I didn't even know there was a town until I looked for it…!"

She's still giggling. It kind of makes me feel bad for a moment, but then she looks up at me with those blue eyes, and I know she's not trying to make me feel bad, but just showing that there's another reason for people constantly teasing me.

"Does…anyone else know?"

"Some have, but then there's the matter of people not wanting to talk to me." She shrugs. "People don't really take a liking to me. And I'm getting the feeling they've started liking me less than they have before because I'm hanging out with the guy who summoned the Lorax. I mean, the Lorax guards you to make sure you protect the forest until you die, pretty much. Or you end up not cutting down any trees and some other guy comes along and decides to cut one down. Then I think he moves on to the other guy. But I don't know much."

I slouch forward again, resting my elbows on the table as I run my hands through my hair. "Great. Just great." I look up at her, and she looks somewhat puzzled. "He is so _annoying!_ I can't get him out of my hair, and I guess nobody else will cut down a tree anytime soon—"

"And that might not work."

"And it might not _work,_ and…" I sigh. I've officially found the source of my problem, and now I can't really fix it. "How smart am I?" I say, smiling slightly.

She smiles back. "That depends. What education have you had?"

We both laugh, and I can see the people behind the counter look at us funny and some people clear out.

As we make small talk, such as me telling her about how the Lorax was trying to teach me a lesson and dumped my bed in the river, finding creatures of the meadow tucked inside my residence by the Lorax, and other misadventures, she starts to get a little fidgety, glancing at the clock time to time until she finds a break in conversation, where we can't think of anything to say.

"I should go." She kind of stutters. "I should probably go and call my parents. I promised myself I'd call them today. I think I finally got their number, so…"

I stand, and she does, too. Her pie has long ago been finished, and the waiter finally comes to pick it up. My coffee has been the same way. Now there's only remnants of the sugar I scooped in at the bottom.

"I'd…I'd like to hang out sometime soon." I say.

She nods. "Sounds groovy." She glances back at the clock again, then locks eyes with me again.

"So…catch you later?" I say. I'm hopeful.

"See you on the flip side."

Her hair trails behind her as she goes to the door, and when she pushes it open, I can tell she takes a glance back at me.

And I hope that the phone call wasn't just an excuse to get away from the kid who summoned the Lorax and is trying to sell some ridiculous invention.


	5. Home Sweet Home

Talking with the Lorax, he admits he's an urban legend, and that, yes, he should've told me. But it's not like it makes a difference anymore. He swears that he'll stay around one person for as long as that person lives. I didn't feel like staying around my residence any longer to hear about the previous person, so I decide to visit Straw.

It's been a few more weeks, I'd say. We've seen each other but never really gotten around to talking again. But she seems happy when she sees me. She seems happier in the sense that I see her hesitate to come and talk to me. But then there are usually a whole lot of people around, throwing insults and tomatoes, now, at me when I'm advertising my Thneed. So I don't mind that she doesn't talk to me. At least not in public. She seems shyer than me, and I think she's comfortable with me inducing conversation.

When I'm at her shop again it looks the same as I've seen it. Everything in neat order, things missing to show that she's still selling things; even with the assumed disapproval of our growing companionship (I'm not going to say "friendship" just yet).

And she's just coming down from her apartment up the stairs, dressed in skinny blue-jeans and sneakers and a long-sleeved shirt. She's gotten a blanket from upstairs it seems, since as there's one wrapped around her shoulders.

She smiles at me when she sees me, locking eyes with me and then looking away, seemingly trying to avoid long eye contact.

"So is this 'the flip side' now?" I ask, smiling at my own joke, walking up to the counter.

As she's sitting down and curling up, she smiles. After a slight pause, her voice is hesitant, but she speaks. "Maybe." Her smile widens slightly. "How have you been?"

"Alright." I say, taking glances through the glass top of the counter, looking at the products neatly tucked inside, untouched and gathering some dust, as they should. "The Lorax admitted he was an urban legend, but I guess there's nothing I can do, because he won't leave me until I die."

"Really?" she asks, pulling a cup from the back counter and then turning back to me, sipping the contents.

"Yeah…hooray me." I say. Sarcasm never fails me.

"Would you like anything to drink? It's pretty cold out and everything…" she begins, getting up again and walking out of the counter area, realizing she probably shouldn't have sat down.

I shrug. "What do you have?"

Straw motions for me to follow her. "You can come up, I'll show you. Was planning to cave and lazy around anyway." I go over to her sign on the door and flip it to the "closed" side. She smiles, and I nod in acknowledgement.

I then follow her upstairs, the carpet a maroon and then changing to tile as we emerge into a kitchen area. It's sort of messy, in the sense of cereal boxes on the table with two chairs, one on either side, in the middle of the space. One has a robe draped over it, and some bowls are stacked on the space in front of it, different shaped spoons dropped in the top bowl of the stack.

She goes over to an old stove, bringing a teapot from the counter next to it, filling it up with water from the sink on the left side, after a line of cupboards. She puts it on the stovetop and turns it on. As soon as she's done that, she turns her head to me. "What do you want? Tea, hot cocoa, or coffee?"

I blow a breath through my lips, taking a glance at her pattered wallpaper—sort of an eggshell white underneath a dark, peach-colored, weaving design. "Tea would be fine."

She nods, turning up the heat and then turning back to me. She sees that I'm still standing in the doorway. "Come in. I won't bite. I don't think there's anything in here that bites."

I smile, taking a step inside, inspecting the place more. She's barefoot, feet slapping the floor as she turns to the line of cupboards and takes out a container of tea bags, unwrapping them and then throwing the wrappers away with speed in the trash can underneath the sink. It seems she does that a lot.

"Straw?" I ask.

"Yeah?" she says, looking up at me when she turns away from the trash can.

"So you, like, close whenever you want? What do you do?"

She shrugs. "I have my records. My TV. I guess it's all good. If anything else, I read a lot."

I nod. "Do you sell much?"

She shakes her head, thinning her lips. "Not really. But enough to get by, I guess."

Nodding again, I mentally plan to help her financially, without just giving money to her, which I assume she'll refuse. I'll tell her I need this or this for my guitar. Maybe if it ever gets broken I'll bring it in.

"We can go into my living room, if you want." Straw suggests.

Her living room's maybe a little neater. I mean, there's books everywhere, stacks and stacks without bookshelves (many of which I've definitely seen down in her shop) but taken care of, most of them on top of fold-out tables and unused chairs. If she's anything like any other book person I've seen, she doesn't like the covers getting all bent and the binding cracking. All the bindings are facing out to be read. Around one side of her old-looking, starting-to-sag, fading yellow couch there's a neat stack of books ready to be read. Mugs seem to congregate around that side of the couch as well. Must be something sort of a dominant side, the one she always lays with her head pointed that way, so they're in reach.

She goes over to a shelf only inches above her television, taking a record from a stack in a plastic container that's hidden between the left side of the television and a comfy- and fluffy-looking chair. She sets it in the record player perched on top of the shelf and lets it play.

I recognize it—The Ink Spots' song, "Maybe"—and she smiles politely at me, scooting past me, murmuring "I'm going to check on the drinks."

I turn sideways to let her pass and then stand there for a moment. I don't really know what else to do, and I feel it impolite to sit on the couch unless she invites me to. (I don't really feel like coming off as a scumbag.) My curiosity gets the best of me, so I step over to the stack of records in the plastic bin, carefully crouching and flipping through them. There's some more of The Ink Spots, then others like Cole Porter and Bob Crosby. I'm as gentle as can be with them, maybe pulling them from the stack to take a look at where the songs are listed to see if I've listened to them before, and then putting them back in the same place. I don't want her to become upset that I've messed up or with her records.

I hear the sound of her feet slapping the floor and I turn my head to her, seeing her set down her cup and then looking at me again and lightly smiling.

"You don't mind, do you?" I have to ask.

She shakes her head. "No, it's fine." She walks over and sets down my cup on top of the television set before crouching down at that spot, seeming that she doesn't want to be too close, but while I'm looking through them she comments on how one's from Iceland and another's from Australia. How this one used to be her mother's but before she left she ended up giving it to her, and how this one she found up in one of the cupboards when she moved in. I smile at each and every one, smile slightly growing.

"You have a good taste in music." I say, and she nods and smiles, murmuring, again, a "thanks."

I slowly plop them back into place before standing, knees starting to become sore. She stands, too, tucking some hair behind her ear, watching as I grab my mug and then scoots past me to grab hers.

"We can…sit in the kitchen." She suggests. "If you want to."

"That'd be groovy, Straw."

Straw smiles shyly, eyes flitting down and then back up again to my face. We walk back to the kitchen.

I take the place opposite of what I've now dubbed "her" chair (the one with the blanket thrown over it and the cereal bowls and boxes scattered in front of it like a model of some kind) and scoot closer to the table.

I watch as Straw sets her mug down and gathers up the cereal boxes, putting them back in the cupboards where they belong. She sets the bowls on the counter so they can be easily accessed, and then finally sits and wraps her hands around her mug.

There's a silent pause, and then I decide to introduce conversation.

_Little did I know a lot of these scenarios would be happening. That the chair across from her would become mine, and I'd come to see her more often. That we'd actually become something sort of friends. That I'd come to have That Warm Feeling._

_…That Warm Feeling._


	6. Doubting

After I've been over to her house I've seen her more frequently. Straw and I will see each other at the grocery or walking down Holland Road (the road on which I've finally figured out the name of, also the one she lives on) and we'll walk together. We've not run out of conversation topics yet, and I suppose is a good thing that we're meeting so often, because she's been keeping her store open—it's maybe gotten a little more business.

As it gets colder, Straw's also taken the liberty of selling cups of tea and coffee and hot cocoa. She's put her vast collection of mugs to good use.

I keep thinking and reminding myself that she hasn't been to my house yet, and now, walking down Holland Road, I decide right then that I'll invite her. It's about time I invite her, because otherwise she might think that I have some kind of secret, or I don't actually have a house, something like that.

The wind chime on the door rings and I wipe my snowy shoes off, pulling my hat off and patting it free of snow. A person scoots past me, dressed in a dark coat, and he nods to me before slipping out.

Straw pipes up. "Don't worry about the snow, Oncey, it's fine."

I smile at her but wipe my feet one last time before stepping up to the counter with cold fingers. Forgetting gloves doesn't do you much good this time of the year. My cheeks are flushed according to the clean glass counter that reflects my face back to me. I'm still wearing my Thneed, even though it's mostly tucked in my coat.

"Cold out there?" she asks.

I nod, trying to warm up my fingers my blowing on them. She suggests a cup of something, and I ask for tea. Every time I ask for tea, I always kind of laugh at myself. It's not the manliest drink in the world. When she comes back with my tea, it's in the same cup. I smile and look at it, lightly wrapping my hands around the hot porcelain. "Is this my cup, now, or..?"

She shrugs. Her hair has been pulled back into a low, messy bun. She's wearing a grey, knitted sweater. "I guess it fits you."

I take a look down at the mug again. It's almost exactly the same design as her wallpaper in the kitchen. "How?"

She shrugs again. "I don't know. You like the kitchen, since you cook a lot, and that's the one you used the first time I offered you a drink."

I nod. I've also been cooking for her, since the one time I've looked in the fridge for something edible it's been all ready-made things. Then the first time I cooked for her she was ecstatic. And I guess that made my days a little better when all I pretty much do is freeze and then get more frozen when some smart one decides to shove a snowball down my shirt. Maybe it's been good for Straw, too. Maybe it's coaxed her into opening up to the world. But right now it's only a maybe. I'm not going to tell myself I'm positive, because I've been let down too much after I've thought that.

"I was wondering, would you want to come and see my house?" I begin. I shrug. "You know, since I've been over to yours for how many times."

She thinks it over. Her slender fingers tap the glass counter and she glances around the shop.

Then she turns around and dashes up the stairs unannounced. I'm left standing there, bewildered, looking behind me and then slowly inching towards the stairs. I hear the sound of metal hangers and a few doors opening and closing. I'm stepping up the first few steps when she appears in the open doorway, dressed with another sweater over the first, earmuffs, gloves with open fingers, and a medium jacket. Old and worn leather boots shield her feet.

Her feet make a pounding rhythm as she flies down the stairs, past me. I step down the steps I've climbed, peeking at her with a puzzled look.

"…Now?"

"Now." She says. I stand there for a moment, watching her zip up her jacket and make sure her earmuffs and shoelaces are secure.

I smile, slightly to myself, following her back outside, closing the door behind me and flipping the sign.

We seem to ricochet off of each other as we drift closer together, her shoulders up to her ears while I have mine up there to shield my face, and then when we touch we politely drift apart and mutter apologies. My eyelashes catch snowflakes and I glance over at Straw, her eyes squinting but she has a slight smile on her face. (Or maybe that's my eyes playing tricks on me.) The wind comes up again and I see her bring her hands from her pockets and curl them into fists, crossing her arms and putting them on her neck, trying to keep it warm.

I stop and then Straw does, too, turning so her back is to the wind, looking at me, confused. I take my Thneed from my neck and offer it to her, zipping my jacket all the way up to the neck. It's enough to keep most of the wind out. Okay, maybe not most. Like half. She hesitates and looks at me for a moment, then smiles and takes it, quickly wrapping it around her neck. I smile as well and then we're walking again.

Trying to maneuver though the valley is almost impossible, with all the snow drifts and the top layer of snow not strong enough to hold your weight, so then you're getting snow up your pants when your feet sink through.

When we're finally at my house, it's beginning to accumulate some snow. When I'm trying to open the door carefully, the wind decides to come along, harsher than before, and the door is thrown harshly against my fridge. I cringe at the sound, and I let Straw hurry in before going in myself and forcing the door closed.

The Lorax steps up. "Jeez, it's pretty cold out there. I'm surprised you managed to get through to here." He notices Straw and she smiles sheepishly at him, and he smiles back.

He jabs a thumb in her direction. "Who's this, you're girlfriend?"

I laugh, almost to myself. "No. We met in town and everything. She owns that guitar place I told you about."

He smiles. "Sure, Beanpole." He snickers, turning to her. "I'm the Lorax."

She nods. "I've heard about you. I'm Strawberry Jones."

He smiles at her and as we're getting our winter gear off he steps over to the stove and when I look at him he's standing on one of my stools, holding my pan to me. I sigh, taking the pan from him and getting out my pancake mix and inviting Straw to sit.

"You knit?"

"Why, is that weird?"

"I don't think so. I guess it isn't the manliest thing in the world."

Straw reaches over to my plate with her fork and pulls off a piece of my pancake, eating it. I smile at her. The Lorax has long since lost interest and has stole my bed and is now sleeping in it.

"Yeah, but at least it gives me something to do. How else would I have made my Thneed?" I say.

She shrugs, and then remembers that she's still wearing my Thneed. "Oh, do you want this back?" She starts unraveling it from her neck.

I sigh. "You know, not really. I…have a feeling that it's not going to work, that it's not going to sell."

Straw pauses, looking at me with some concern. "…You doubt yourself."

I nod slowly.

Her stare bores into mine and then she stands, grabbing her jacket and putting it on. I'm panicking now, because I don't know what she's doing. I can't bring myself to stand because it might seem like an aggressive act, so I stay where I am, not even turning, because by now I'm thinking she's leaving. Just like that. Maybe she's offended by me doubting myself? Or maybe she's like my mom. Maybe she's been expecting me to make something big of myself and then she'll be part of it. Maybe she's been faking this. This thing where I'm actually deciding on calling her a friend.

Then she's right next to me, and I glance over. She leans down and pulls me into a hug, which of course surprises me. When what's happening starts to sink in, and I find myself confused.

"Don't doubt yourself. I need to go, but I'll see you later, okay?" Her whisper tickles my ear and her ears are cold.

Then she pulls away and she slowly opens the door, smiling at me softly before forcing it closed. I'm left there staring at where her face disappeared and shivering slightly in the wind she let in.


	7. Addiction

Straw's connection with the outside world begins to recede, and I don't know why. She stops using her mugs to provide cocoa and coffee and tea, and she begins to close more often and for longer. But she's still talking to me, which I guess is a good thing.

But as for me, Straw's helped me slowly grow my confidence. I've become more accustomed to the insults and by now I'm ignoring them. I guess some common sense things I've overlooked.

Then Straw occupies my thoughts more often the more often I see her store closed or her wandering the streets, where I don't ask what she's doing, because then she might get defensive or think I'm some kind of creep. Okay, maybe not _that_ extreme, but I can see her starting to see me as a creep.

And it worries me a lot, actually. The Lorax teases, but he knows that I'm really seeing her as a friend, and that I want to keep that. Being with that moustache too long does things to you, I swear.

But I see her connection with the outside world _receding_, and it just confuses me. I mean, she was so open before, and then it went downhill when I started doubting myself…

"You know what—it's probably nothing." I set my plate and fork neatly in the sink, stacked on the others. The Lorax looks at me, nodding.

"Yeah, just don't sweat it, Beanpole. Just don't try to get in her business."

The weather's one of those nice days that are cold, but cold enough that you don't care about it because there's sun and that's what distracts you. Some kind of nostalgia for the coming spring, I guess. I pull my jacket on anyway, not bothering with a scarf but wearing my green leather gardening gloves that are warmer than you'd think. I turn my head back to him as I straighten my jacket's collar. "That'll probably just make me seem like more of a creep—"

"Than you already are." He says. We both smirk.

"I know, just—I worry, you know? I mean I guess it's natural or something." My attention's turned to the buttons on my jacket as I start from the bottom and work my way up the jacket.

"Maybe you have a motherly instinct, Beanpole." He laughs to himself. "I wouldn't be surprised, I mean you knit, you cook, you wear that _apron_—"

I walk up to him after shoving my hat on, pointing a finger in his face. "Hey, listen _Moustache_, I have manly parts. I have a _fatherly_ instinct. But this is Straw—I'd have to have some 'friend instinct', or a mix of the two."

He tries to hold back another laugh. "A 'motherly friend instinct'?"

I thin my lips, turning around and throwing my hands in the air. "What? _No—_you know what? I'm out of here."

I look back at him and smirk before securely closing the door behind me.

* * *

When I'm at her place it's closed again, but I go to open the door, and it's open as always. I make sure to lock it behind me when I let myself in.

The sun comes in through the window and dust weaves through the beams like twitchy, slow-motion flies. I wipe my feet and then look around for her, expecting her to be reading one of her books she'll bring down to read in one of her primary-colored bean bags, but she's not down here. I take my still somewhat muddy shoes off before I ascend the stairs into her apartment. The carpet covering the stairs is some kind of ugly mustard yellow, but it makes up for its looks in softness.

The kitchen is neat. Her teapot is on the stove, and I walk over to it and see that the oven is off, thankfully, and the teapot empty.

_So by now you know that I was really confused and maybe a little panicky. She had tea at some time or another and it doesn't look like she's had breakfast, otherwise there'd be a bowl lying in the sink, which bothered me at that time because I thought I was a little creepy. _

I narrow my eyes slightly, calling out for Straw with no answer.

_By now I was…starting to panic._

I swallow and walk into the living room, not seeing her on the couch, but I see her boots next to it, crooked-looking like they were haphazardly thrown there. Looking down the hallway, a few pictures are knocked off the wall and I'm thinking there was a break-in or something.

_Now I was actually panicking._

I dash into the hallway, peeking in both her rooms and calling out her name, fearing that she's gone somewhere or has been taken.

When I finally come up to Straw's bathroom, the door is closed and the light is off and I'm worried for what I'll find or won't find—but I need to open it. I open it slowly, seeing only…well, her bathroom. It looks normal. So where's Straw?

I turn the light on, and as soon as I do, I see movement from behind her flowery shower curtain. I'm less panicked now, but I'm still cautious when I pull it open.

Straw is huddled in there, using her heavy jacket as a blanket and covering her face with it. I smile slightly and laugh a little bit, crouching and laying a hand on her shoulder. "Straw, what are you doing—?"

"Go away." Her voice is muffled and I'm launched right back into confusion.

"What—wait, why? Why are you in your _bathtub_?"

"Just _go_." She moves slightly, bringing more of her jacket over her head and her upper torso. Her shirt lifts with her arms, and what I see underneath is a bruise.

I reach out and hesitantly lift her shirt to get a better look at it. "Straw, there's…" I see more bruises, and I narrow my eyes, getting less confused and more worried. "Bruises?"

She jerks away from me, trying her best to become tiny and curl up in her jacket where I'll never find her. "I fell against my coffee table." She says.

I want to say "I don't believe you," but I don't. "Why are you in your bathtub?"

"No reason I just… I don't know." She hesitates and gives an obviously horrible answer which explains nothing.

I sigh. "Let me see you then. Let's go have some tea." I pat her shoulder and she flinches away from my touch. Now I need to know what's going on.

I grab a part of the jacket and pull it all the way off of her, even when she hangs onto it. Then she sits up, glaring at me through her messy, somewhat frizzy hair. She pulls her shirt down and straightens it, though I see another bruise on her shoulder. I can see when she wipes her hair from her face that she has a black eye and there's dried blood in her mouth and on her face.

"Oh my God, Straw…what the _hell_ happened to _you_?" My brow creases and I'm scooting closer, glancing at her arms and seeing scratches and scrapes as well, reaching for one of her hands.

She scoots to the other corner of the bath like I'm a disease. She hugs her knees to her chest and doesn't make eye contact with me.

I try a different approach after sitting there for a moment. I slowly crawl into the tub and sit on my heels, swallowing and reaching for her arm, wrapping one around her wrist. She pulls it away, and I'm left sitting there now, tense and waiting for her to open up.

It's maybe about ten seconds before she slowly looks up at me. I'm still there, sitting on my heels, looking at her openly and worriedly. But then she gets up out of the tub and walks out and to her room, sitting on her bed after wrapping a soft blanket around herself, back to me.

After staring at her for a moment I turn and walk back to the kitchen, filling up her teapot and sitting in my chair, feeling almost hollow not seeing Straw across from me. What could've happened to her? Is whatever happened to her why she was receding from the public?

Whatever worry I wipe away for now since the water's boiling and I pour us two cups of tea.

I venture back into her room to find her the same way I left her. Curled up in her own blanket igloo, hibernating. I walk slowly to stand in front of her, and then hold out her mug of tea—she slowly takes it, bringing it close to her. I pull up a short chair and sit in front of her, watching her sip tea as I sip mine.

She opens her mouth, hesitates, and then speaks. "…Oncey. I…think… I guess it's your right to know why I'm like…this." She begins. She takes another sip of tea and continues. "I have an addiction."

I notice this is hard for her, says the tears beginning to brew at the edges of her eyes. She sighs, looking down and then looking back up at me. "I'm addicted to marijuana."

_She went on to explain how she got all the bruises and all the wounds and told me about her encounter with a couple of guys who ripped her off and then she stole the real thing from them—they attacked her but she got away. And she's so ashamed of the lengths she's gone to get what her body has been continually needing even though she's tried to wean off of it, but she explained it all to me. After a while she couldn't hold all her feelings in and just flat-out started crying. I held her while she cried and when she was done I just kept holding her close because I knew she needed it._

"Thank you." It's a little above a whisper when she says it.

"No, thank _you_. I think I needed to know this just as much as you needed to tell me this." And after I say it I think it's the wisest thing I've ever said to a person.

She doesn't say anything, just continues to let me hold her. When she does it's a question. "Would you stay here tonight?" She asks. I say "Yes," and then I get her to eat, get her to talk some more, and then she's asleep on the couch with Led Zeppelin playing in the background on her record player and me sitting in the big, fluffy chair beside it.

_ And I think that's the first time I ever felt "That Warm Feeling"._


	8. Affect and Effect

It's become a habit to wake up in Straw's big, fluffy chair to the sound of a record long since done and the sight of her bare feet peeking out from underneath her blanket. Sometimes she'll be up and showering, and other times she'll be watching television with a cup of tea, and another ready for me. It's also become a habit to make up things for the Lorax to believe, because I want this addiction thing between Straw and I only—only Straw and I.

Sometimes I'll panic because I don't know where she is, and find out she's downstairs, with the shop open. I think it helps her, sometimes. She'll usually get lost in a book at the counter and I'll bring her record player down and play some of the ones for sale. Of course there'll be customers and everything, but usually we're alone, left to bask in the silence and our thoughts. (Or a book or a record.)

Most of all, _I_ think I'm helping her. She's enjoying my company. But some nights she'll just lose it and say over and over again that she can't make it through it, and it hurts me every time to see her that way. There's, of course, been an effect on her health: restless sleep resulting in a crabby mood and tired eyes; fidgety behavior and habits that move her up and down the stairs and through the rooms, and after a while I'd look around for her and find her curled up somewhere, trying to keep herself from giving into her addiction, and I'll have to be the one to comfort her; receding into herself and not coming out for a while. There's been a lot more, but I'd rather not get into it. But then contact with me will eventually cure most of these things—for now she's what I can only describe as an emotional roller-coaster.

I've tried to push her into getting help from someone other than me, but she insists that we try this first. She tells me that if this doesn't work and she even tries to do it again that I need to take her to a professional, no matter how much I have to force her.

I don't argue with the idea.

My eyes open to the sight of her apartment's ceiling. I'm in her big, fluffy chair as usual and I feel relatively awake. When I look at the clock that I've set on the television I realize it's almost eleven and I should check on Straw.

I look around the room first, checking for the sight of her and the sound of someone in the kitchen or the sound of the shower. None of them come to me, and I stand and stretch, assuming she's downstairs. I first walk into the kitchen to see if she's eaten and since there are no dishes in the sink, I assume she hasn't.

I go into the bathroom and rub the sleep out of my eyes, brushing my teeth with Straw's extra toothbrush and making my hair look presentable. My clothes I've slept in and I put on deodorant before making my way downstairs.

"And The Stick is finally awake." Straw declares. She's in her usual beanbag, nose in a book. She's fidgeting with the side of the pages, and I think it's a new habit she's developed—habits have been popping up frequently from her. As for the nickname, it's Straw's own. I guess it's a term of endearment, some kind of thanks for me being here.

I drag over a beanbag and plop it next to her, sitting down. "Yeah, I guess I am. Have you eaten?"

She shakes her head, still immersed in her book.

"Is the shop open?"

Another shake of the head.

I take a long look at her and then decide to ask, "How are you feeling?"

She shrugs.

"Feeling a little bad today?"

"…A little," she says. She pauses. "I've read the same sentence twenty-seven times now."

"Put down the book, I'll cook you something."

Thneeds haven't gotten any more popular than all the times I've tried, and people aren't giving me any slack even when I'm not trying to sell them. I'm still annoyed by them, but by now they're part of my routine, I guess. Part of a usual day.

I take Straw upstairs and I pull out the ingredients to cook pancakes. That's another thing that keeps her on track: my pancakes. I don't know if they're associated with a memory or she just really likes them.

We both eat in silence, and silence like this means she's distracted. But she soon shakes herself of it and tries to make conversation, which is very good. She needs distraction right now. "Have you sold any Thneeds yet?" She asks.

I shake my head. "People are still after me even when I'm not trying to sell them. Gets a little annoying, I guess."

She nods and gets up to make tea. She pulls out the copper teapot and fills it with water, setting it on the stove and taking the two mugs we use from where they were drying and pulling out teabags. I watch her silently, looking for any sign of anxiety and shaking. When that happens, she usually needs a record or television to distract her for a while, because I know I'm not always enough.

She sees me looking and we lock eyes for a moment. She smiles slightly at me. "Think I should open the shop today?" She asks.

I think for a moment, setting my head in my right hand, feeling my jaw adjust. "No... Let's be bums today, okay?"

Straw nods, agreeing. She sets my tea in front of me.

* * *

Later I make my way home after an elongated goodbye, making sure Straw is ever-occupied. My goodbye is a quick hug, that sometimes I wish could be longer, then I'm out the door and making my way back to my house, residence, whatever.

The Lorax is standing there at my feet with a knowing smile. I pull off my coat, glancing down at him and smiling like I don't know why he's smiling. "What?" I ask as I take off my knitted winter hat I made once at Straw's. I made her one, too. Just another distraction.

He raises his fluffy eyebrows. "'What?'" He mocks. He smirks. "How's your _girlfriend_?"

I sigh, laughing slightly. "You know Straw's not my girlfriend."

"You spend enough time with her."

I pull out my frying pan before he can ask; trying my best to concentrate on making pancakes rather than the furry little bean standing at my feet. "We enjoy each other's company." I retort.

He pulls a stool over and climbs up it to the counter, crossing his thin arms. "But it's not that, is it?" he asks.

I turn my head to him with a raised eyebrow, flipping a pancake and having it miss. He's going way too fast—what does he want? I scramble to clean it, and I'm sure he's thinking that's a sign that I know something he doesn't. Which I _do, _but that's not the point. "What do you mean?" I ask hastily.

He watches me clean it up for a moment, and when I look at him again his eyebrows are pointed down. He knows that I'm lying. But I'm still trying to look as innocent as possible so that he might—and only might—give up and leave me be.

"_What_?" I hold my hands out exaggeratedly after throwing the pancake away and starting over again on another. He reaches out a hand and stops me before I pour the batter onto the pan. I set the batter on the counter slowly and take a half step back. Does he know? How does he know? No, the real worry is _does he know_?

"I can see everything happening in the forest. But not just the forest," he begins, but then he sighs and crosses his arms again. He's smaller than me. He's not eye level with me. But I feel really intimidated. "Look—I know about Strawberry."

"…_How_?" I'm pretty astonished and a little creeped-out by this. And I'm a little angry.

He starts to speak but I stop him. "No. Wait. Before that, _why_ did you think it was okay for you to look into my_ life_ like that? That was personal, Lorax. That was my life—no, it was _Straw's_. You had no right to look into things like that! I can't _believe_ you!"

The Lorax tells I'm going to shut out what he's saying and walk out, so he talks over me. "I know it was private, but I was curious and also worried. I've seen addicts like her before—"

"'_Addicts like her'_?"

"And—but listen to me here, please, Beanpole—and I got worried that you were getting too mixed up with them, too."

"Straw isn't _bad_! I can't believe you would even think that Straw would ever do that to me."

He's still talking over me, and my anger's only rising. "How could I know? I just got really worried, okay; can't a guy worry over the guy he's supposed to be watching over?"

I smile and laugh, expressing my anger now turning into disgust. "But you're not 'a guy'! You're this fuzzy ball of hippie-ness that has managed to wiggle itself into my life because I chopped down a tree and I made a product that isn't even _selling_! Why are you still _here_?"

"Beanpole, listen—"

"No, I'm not going to listen." I spit out. "I'm not going to listen because I'm tired of listening to what's coming out of your mouth."

He stands there for a moment and when he looks like he's going to try and talk again, I say, "Get out."

He's surprised. "What?"

"Get out. Now. Get out, Lorax. This is my home and I don't want you here. Get. _Out_."

He stands there for another moment. Then he's out the door.

I spend the rest of the night cleaning out my closet as a form of distraction. In the middle of it, I find my coin jar with the spare change I received from cleaning the whole house's laundry for at least seventeen years and the small jobs I managed to receive. And I pick out a coin and wish for a moment that it'll somehow explode and I'll be somewhere where I don't have to worry about all this, with Straw and the Lorax, and everything I've ever said to any person. I just want it to all disappear.

_But a part of me wanted everything else _but_ Straw to go away. That I only wanted to stay with her. _

_ And then I remembered That Warm Feeling. And then I started to think about it. _

_ I didn't get to sleep until two A.M._

* * *

_March 18_

_ Diary, _

_ I'm getting more cravings. I'm running out of things to do and I'm letting myself think about before Oncey knew. I know that soon I won't be able to keep it in—I'll act out and then Oncey will have to take the heat and what I'm writing now won't come into my head because I'll think I was being crazy and that it was all rubbish. I'm scared, Diary. I'm really scared right now. _

_ And I've just glanced back at what I had written, and I can't believe that I would say things like that—describe my feelings in that way. I remember writing it, but not like this. Now I just sound perfectly insane and I don't want to revert back into what I was. I want to ask Oncey for help but I know I can't. I know I don't have the guts. And no matter how bad I want him to know how I feel, I can't let him see you. I think it'll be too much for him to take in and maybe he'll push me away. I want him here. And I think I want him here—by "wanting him here", I mean when he's gone I almost cant find things for myself—because I'm absolutely positive that he's the one keeping me alive. That he's the reason I'm not six feet under right now. And I think if I lose that I'll eventually end up harming or killing myself over the shit._

* * *

A week later, a door is slammed harshly in my face. The same door I've walked into without warning and greeted Straw with the same enthusiasm as I always do. I was in the process of doing that when she slammed it in my face with the same out-of-nowhere attitude.

I swallow. She looked tired and scared and even angry. This is a side that I've never seen of her.

"…Straw?" My voice comes out softer than I wanted it to, so after a moment I call her name again.

I close my eyes for a moment and sigh, listening to the spring's downpour as water collides with pavement. I calm my nerves that are saying something's wrong, that she might've given into her addiction. That she might have run out of things to distract herself with and she can't take it anymore. Or she doesn't want to see me because she's heard something about me that isn't true or—

Enough.

I open my eyes and let out another, though shakier, sigh. I pull my hat off slowly and go for the doorknob again—it's locked. I reach up above the doorframe for the key that's always up there, but it's not there, either. I feel my panic slowly but surely increasing, my face trying not to show it. I knock on the door. "Straw, please."

She doesn't answer.

Finally I'm starting to give into my panic, and that helps me go through my head to find where I can go to get in—the back door flashes in my mind, so I shove my hat on and run through the alleyway that leads to the back, pushing the door open and seeing Straw at the bottom of the stairs. We lock eyes, and then she runs up the stairs. She must have been coming to lock the door once she saw me running. I follow her until we're almost to her room and I'm close enough that I'm able to wrap my arms around her, and she thrashes, but I only hold tighter, trying to talk her through this. My heart's going as fast as my mind is going, trying to find the right words to console her with. If I can't think of something fast she's going to pull herself free and hide in her room and keep me out and do who-knows-what in the heat of the moment.

And I can't let that happen.

"I can't do this anymore, I can't fucking do this anymore!" she says, she repeats, loudly as she tries to squirm from my grasp. "I can't do this, let me the _fuck_ go!"

"Strawberry." My voice is drowned in her ranting. She's crying, now, refusing to let me overpower her. I feel myself snap on impulse, "Strawberry Jones, quit fucking _moving_!"

And it's loud and it's swearing and it's totally unlike me.

She's surprised by my outburst, stopping her movements and waiting, trying to see if I actually said it. And maybe, subliminally, she wants to hear the feedback, my advice, my voice to pull her back to reality.

I take in a shaky breath. "Strawberry Jones, I can't let you throw away everything I've helped you accomplish, what you've worked for. I can't let that happen." It takes me a moment to think of other things to say. "You're a wonderful person, and I know you're stronger than this. Please, please just…don't."

She breaks free of me, and I let her, trusting her. I know that by now she won't run, because now she's interested and wants to know more. She turns around to face me and we lock eyes. By her eyes I see the chance of her wanting to know more is gone and she's trapped in the heat of the moment again. She straightens her posture and brushes her hair from her face. There's also a long pause before she says:

"Why do _you _care?"

I smile slightly, going for the compassion look, thinking faster than I've ever done before, looking for an answer that'll bring her back to reality. _Back, Oncey, bring her back._ "Because you're the only human being I've managed to befriend and I don't want you killing yourself over something so useless." I smile a bit wider, but it's fake now. "Everyone else _hates _me, and you're the only one who likes me. I can't let that go because you need drugs."

"But you don't understand what I'm going through—I fucking need that stuff or I'm going to go _insane._ I'll just push you away and you'll never see me again."

"I won't leave you, I promise that—"

"It happened with my parents, why shouldn't it happen to you?" she shouts.

I pause. Confusion has set in.

She laughs, and it's hollow. "Why, do you think that after I turned eighteen I just left off of _impulse?_ Did you think that I actually had a phone call from them that time at the diner? Did you…_really_ think that?"

My mouth opens then closes like I'm a fish out of water. Then I just give up and let her explain. But I'm also afraid, very afraid, of what I've uncovered.

"I went away from them because they were holding me down and trying to emaciate my addiction. I left because I knew they'd never find me. They travel for their job, anyway, so how are they going to look for me? The police won't look this far—I used to live in California. Hot and sweaty where everything was accessible and it was great. Then my parents found out about me and made sure that anyone and everyone were checking on me twenty-four-seven." She's somewhat taunting now and I'm feeling more and more stupid the more she explains, and more saddened by her just up-and-leaving and traveling how far so she could have a break from being watched all the time. Although, pressure isn't a good idea with Straw. She'll scream and kick and refuse confession until she's had space.

"And as for the diner, I needed a fix. I really needed a fix. That was about the time I was still into my addiction, and then you came along and I think somehow, someway, subliminally, I wanted _help_ from the likes of you." Now she's getting hostile. Her blue eyes are angry and I know that she's going to say things she'll regret. But maybe she does feel that way. What if she does? I…can't walk out on her. Not now. She needs me. I just need to tell myself that: "_She needs me."_

_ She needs me._

"I wanted help because I was maybe getting a little _bored_. I was maybe really starved for human interaction. I was getting too introvert-y, and I wanted help from another introvert that, for all I know, could've been addicted to something." She laughs, hollow again. "I mean, a _Thneed_? I wouldn't have even expected to see that unless I was on LSD or something." She pauses, the taunting coming back with the hostility. "You also seem to depend on me. You _need_ the social interaction and you choose an _addict_ out of a _whole town_ of sheltered people who don't even _smoke!_ Why couldn't you have chosen someone else?"

Now she's starting to cry again. Her cliché eyes are letting tears run free and I think—I hope—she's starting to regret what she's saying. Deep down, that she is. "Why couldn't you have chosen someone else so I could've died already and you could've had someone you would eventually marry and someone who might actually slap some sense into you that a Thneed is a bad idea and continually recites articles on the negative effects of _smoking_? Why couldn't you have just _left me alone_?"

Now I've wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, because I can tell she's falling apart. I can tell that this is creating a toll on her mental state, and I mentally try and work out if I should bring her to an actual doctor by now. But right now I'm still having what she said sink in.

_I still can't believe that I let her walk all over me instead of walking out. Yes, Straw, why didn't I choose someone other than you? Why did I ever think of the Thneed? Why couldn't I have been independent instead of dependent? Why couldn't I have been born a smart-ass instead of a dumbass?_

_Yes. Why?_

After she's finally calmed herself she continues to cling to me. I think this is more of a sorry than anything else.

Don't get me wrong, I'm…hurt. I'm definetly hurt by what she's said. And I don't want to get into the details about all my failures and how this relates to my childhood because I know it's boring and pointless when I start explaining it. And it'll get me distracted in a bad way.

She's clinging to me like I'm the only thing that's keeping her sane. Which, according to what's happening now, I really believe I am. I know I am.

Now that I've brought her back to reality, what am I going to do? How am I going to make her feel better about this? I'm getting all panicky because I'm pretty sure that one wrong move will do me in. That she'll disappear from me like she did her parents—that's what really worries me.

_And then it turns out that the only logical thing I could think of at the moment was to give her a cup of tea and not talk and then put her to bed. She apologized, and I told her not to worry. But I was worrying. I really was. I spent half the night thinking about it in the big, fluffy chair I managed to drag into her room, and then I eventually went to the kitchen and had continual cup after cup of tea._

_Then I went to sleep for the first time thinking that I was her lifeline. I was the person keeping her alive. I kept wondering and thinking, daydreaming about some other gal I met instead of her. That if I went with her and became her friend, what would Straw be now? Would she be the person they've found after a few days, rotting in her bed?_

_I tortured myself trying to imagine what would've happened. What people I would have met. How I would have reacted if I didn't know Straw at all and heard about her. How I would've thought of her. How my sheltered friend and quite possibly girlfriend would say. _

_She'd shrivel her nose in disgust and say, "Poor girl. I don't get why girls like her manage to leave everything for some stimulant." She'd clutch my arm tighter and then pull me along, saying, "C'mon, let's go."_

_And I wouldn't think twice._


	9. Something In The Way

Things have gotten progressively worse, but then they've gotten progressively better. Straw has been more attached to me than usual, and I'll wake up to find her curling up next to me like a cat needing a place to lie, or a dog demanding attention. It's not the attention, though, because I know that her mental state has taken a toll when she busted out into speaking her mind like an actor bursting out into song in a musical, which is something she hasn't done to me, and even though it hurt, I'm still very, very glad she came to me. I'm still very, very glad her reason stood out from her need for drugs. And I'm so very, very proud of her.

The Lorax has finally come around again—it was the day after Straw's awful outbursts when I saw the furry little orange peanut standing on one of my stools when I came back to my home (even though I don't even call it a home—Straw's is more a home than that), with his furry orange peanut eyebrows raised, and his furry orange peanut arms crossed. I stared at him for a moment, and then I walked over to him and hugged him. He hugged me back. I actually felt accepted.

He did ask about Straw, but we both knew he knew what had happened, and I was glad that I didn't have to tell anyone else; I'm sure I would have fallen apart on the spot.

This is one of those nights where Straw crawls into the chair with me, all skinny arms and legs and bare feet. Her hair is pulled back into a nice, neat ponytail, but it's frizzy nonetheless. I immediately let her get comfortable, feeling her arms wrap around my skinny frame, her settle her head underneath my chin, where my shoulder meets my neck—I then wrap my arms around her and we lay there for a moment. Her breath feels hot against my neck.

"What's wrong?" I whisper, like someone's going to hear us.

She shifts closer to me, clinging to me tighter. "Don't let me get up. Not even to go to the bathroom. Just don't." she pauses, waiting for my confirmation that I'll do what she asked, but we both know that I'll say:

"Okay." I'm still whispering.

"Thanks, Oncey." She whispers back—this is routine. I can feel that she's shaking slightly, but I know that when she's this close to me, she'll finally sleep. She'll lie there for a while until she drifts into a fitful sleep, but she does sleep.

And I stay awake for a while; humming different songs and songs I make up (which, like a kid, will soothe her into sleep. I guess people of all ages have similarities), tired but wanting to think, again, what I would be doing if I wasn't here—if I never met Straw. I'd probably be sitting in a different chair, with my sheltered girlfriend who won't go for more contact than holding hands, and I'd be in a different house, and it wouldn't be Straw, and I can't let myself think anymore because then I won't be able to get it out of my head.

Sometimes it'll be a few days before I finally come back to the Lorax from Straw's, but he understands. He knows that she needs me more than anyone else right now, and that she's the only human interaction I have that isn't all insults and water balloons filled with rainwater. But whenever I'm away from her, only for a moment, I worry. I really worry, and maybe that's as much of a bad thing as it is a good thing. But for now I'm not worrying. For now I'm looking after her.

The next day Straw wants to go out. She wakes up and she decides that today is the day—she's going out, and she's going to find something to do. If it kills her, she says. And that adds to my worry—only slightly, but it adds to it nonetheless.

But the sun is shining through the window above Straw's sink, and when I open the curtains I try and tell myself it'll be fine. _This…this is going to be a good day. Don't worry._ I tell myself that enough times, and hear it from Straw, that it calms me down.

It's almost like she's venturing into another world when she's getting ready to go out. She looks over to me, wearing a sweater and bell-bottoms. "I look ridiculous." She states, almost like it's blatant.

"Do you want me to pick out some clothes—"

"Please." She plops onto her bed, brushing her hair back with her fingers, over her shoulders. Suddenly and unexpectedly That Warm Feeling comes back and I can't help but think really quickly as I turn to her closet: "_She's so beautiful._" But it's only a fleeting thought, and I know she hasn't seen the flash of what I'm thinking in my eyes because she can't see them. And I don't know why I'm glad she doesn't see, but I am. I end up picking out some jeans that won't drag on the ground and what I know are her favorite loafers. Straw has moved over to her full-length mirror, fussing around with her hair.

"When was the last time I had this cut?" she wonders out loud. I don't get why girls need to get so worried about their hair—I look at her for a moment, swishing her hair over to one side, then the other, frustrated with both.

I walk up to her and pat her shoulder. "It's only dead—what is it—skin cells. It's not life." I hand her the jeans and her loafers, nicely pulling her away from the mirror and to her bathroom.

"Okay, okay," she protests, stepping into the bathroom and sticking her tongue out at me before closing the door.

From behind the door I smile to myself, staring at the floor for a moment and trying to pull myself together. I'm getting all mushy and it's not like me to have a girl do this to me. Actually, it's never happened—all the girls have rejected me and never even talked to me, even my own mother. _Maybe my attraction towards Straw is because she's the only girl that's accepted me,_ I think as I sit on the bed, digging my elbows into the space above my knees, running my hands through my hair and wiping my face with my hands, like any of my previous thoughts will come off on it and I can just wipe them on my jeans and be done with it. But I know that can't happen, and she knows that can't happen, and if _only_ she could understand and we'd be fine with it but I don't want to push it too far because I don't want her to feel like she has to be my girlfriend, and—

Wait. Girlfriend?

I pause. Is that what I _really_ want? A _girlfriend_?

I sigh inwardly. Maybe This Warm Feeling is like Straw's hair. Swishing it over this way and that, examining and trying out different styles, wondering how it'll—how _I'll_—look in other's eyes. How I'll look in _her_ eyes.

Straw comes out and interrupts my thoughts, and I shake myself of them like they're apples. I'm close enough to a tree, at least in height, anyway.

I wipe my face one last time before getting up and stretching, looking at Straw, who holds out a ponytail, turning around and pulling her hair up, asking me to put it in a bun for her. As I'm gathering her hair, making sure there's no stray hair to be bothered with, I'm slowly stripping myself of these thoughts. This day is for Straw—even if I'm thinking about Straw, I just need to spend time with her as a friend.

This day is for Straw.

* * *

_March 20__th_

_ Today is for Oncey. Not me. Today is for Oncey. _

_ I've…I'm leaving. I'm taking my stuff, and leaving. And I feel like crying right now, but I've held it in this long, why not another day? I can cry when I'm gone. _

_ But I want to tell myself that he needs me as much as I need him, but I know that if I keep going on my fits will get progressively worse and then I'll end up hurting him physically when I run out of words. And I don't want that to happen, because I know it will. _

_ And there are only a few pages left in you, Diary, so I'm going to write now, then write tonight. Maybe I'll decide I'm not going—but you already know I am. I already know I am. _

_ If you ever find this, Oncey, I want you to know that…That this isn't on you. _

_ I know, Diary. I'll write a note. So then he'll find it, and… He'll have a note. At least I'm not one of those heartless people who don't leave a note, but leave them the last words they said. What a fucking horrible thing to do. _

_ But…Oncey. __**This. Isn't. On. You.**_

* * *

"I haven't heard you play your guitar in a while." Straw says after we make our way downstairs. She's looking at the guitars in a line, hanging on the back wall of _All Things Music_, collecting dust. It makes me wonder why she hasn't asked me this before—why today?

I shrug. "Sounds good, but I don't have mine here."

"Then grab one. All they're doing up there is collecting dust." Straw looks over at me, shrugging as well.

"Really?" I ask, hands in pockets, looking up at the five guitars.

"Yeah. I'm positive." Says Straw. "Which one?"

I walk over and stand under a plain wood one, glossy and, yes, dusty, thinking for a moment, then looking over at her and back to it. "How about this one?"

Straw nods. "If you want." She smiles, moving to grab a chair, but I stop her.

"Can't I just lift you up and you get it? It'll be faster, right?"

Straw laughs, but I hoist her up when she's looking down and her arms are crossed, so this catches her off guard. She immediately stops laughing, and she almost tumbles out of my grasp over my shoulder, but she stops herself by quickly wrapping her arms around my neck, curling up and letting out a little, girly yelp.

With her bony shoulder jabbed in my face, I try talking around it, saying, "Straw, you have to let go of me, that's the only way you can grab it."

"I hate heights." She says simply, clinging to me tighter.

"I know, but just this once. You can trust me." I say.

She holds herself up my digging one hand into my shoulder, same with the other until I finally back up to the guitar. She's laughing continuously as she grabs it and even after I set her down and she hands me the guitar.

* * *

Our day is very eventful.

We start with coffee. Not tea—coffee. We both grab lattes and we both scoop the foam from our cups before bringing them back to the counter and leaving, satisfied and smelling of coffee.

Straw stays close to me as we comb through thrift stores, and she picks out more sweaters even though it's getting to be late spring and early summer. I buy myself some nice loafers like Straw's, and we both think it looks nice on me—she compliments the man who pointed it out, who works there. It seems very likely he's gay, and when we ask, it turns out he (Harry—he tells us his name) is. Straw asks how he found out his sexuality, and then he explains it quickly enough, to my surprise—he met his sweetheart once when he still thought he was straight, and they became very good friends after a while. One night they were at a bar after his last girlfriend dumped him. He was drowning his sorrows with drinks until he looked at his friend and they shared a kiss.

After Harry told us, he got this sideways smile and looked us over, remembering that I was the one who was trying to sell Thneeds, and asking Straw about her shop and how it was doing—how he hadn't seen it open very often. Straw lies at first, telling him that she's recovering from a family death. Then she shakes her head and steps over and tells him the truth in his ear. He gives her a nod and a normal, consoling smile before we go up to the counter and pay, and he stops Straw after, walking around the counter to give her a comforting hug. Then he stops me before I walk out with Straw, giving me a firm handshake and asking me to come back another time—he surprises me when he gets the sideways smile again and says, in a low voice so Straw won't hear, "Take care of that girl. She's a wild one."

Our journey takes us farther, to places both of us have never been, like a book shop with a woman (Delilith—a combination of "Delilah" and "Lilith", her first and middle name) that has spent time and money covering parts of her body with elaborate and beautiful tattoos, owning her own tattoo parlor in the back. The other is a coffee shop with the skinniest man you could ever meet—even skinnier than me, and that's kind of saying something. Straw got to talking with him, since the place wasn't busy (and never usually was, but had a steady flow of customers), and he tells us that he never has had an eating disorder, or ever plans to. He's also a vegetarian.

When we journey to the park afterwards, with coffees in our hand, promising Joe (the vegetarian at the coffee shop, ironically named like he was destined for the job) we'd bring his mugs back. All of his mugs are mismatched and different in their own way, like Straw's, and—now that I think about it—the people of this town. We're all different, but some of the people, the ones underneath the seemingly sheltered skin of this town, all share similarities that are unmistakable.

"People are like mugs." I say out loud.

Straw giggles. "Why?" She asks.

I tell her my theory with the mugs.

She pauses. "That's not a theory, it's a fact."

I shrug. "Some people will disagree with that." I adjust the strap of the guitar over my shoulder.

"I have a feeling Joe wouldn't." she says.

I smile. "Yeah. I have a feeling Joe wouldn't, too."

We walk around for a while until we happen upon the empty bench—the bench where I first felt a connection with Straw.

"Hey, it's the bench." Straw states. So she remembers it, too. Straw sits on it first, crossing her legs and taking another sip of her coffee. I sit down next to her, and we watch passerby as we finish them, commenting on how you can totally see him grabbing her ass, and how her sheltered boyfriend is so glad she's stopped smoking when there's an obvious outline of a cigarette pack in her back pocket, even if covered by her long shirt. "Sneaky woman," says Straw.

Then she starts to get all serious. She starts to get like those times where you start to think about the world in depth, not just going through everyday life.

"You know," she starts, sighing and pausing and then going back to what she was saying, "I do think people are like mugs. Mugs are like people. We are filled and then we are sucked dry. We are broken and then we are repaired. Or we're just broken. Or we're just perfect. Wait. No, nobody's really perfect." She corrects herself. "Like mugs we have chips and scrapes and we can be annoying and it freaks you the hell out when one of them breaks. It's kind of insane, but I guess we're all insane. And I think that you've helped me see the world differently, Oncey."

She turns to me, looking me in the eye. "I think that you've helped me see the world as something different, not just as something I need drugs to get away from. And…I'm really, really thankful for that. I think every day that if you weren't here, I'd be dead. I'd definitely be dead. And I guess that's good and bad. Good in a good way, but bad in both. I guess. I don't know what I'm saying now. I was going somewhere but I lost it." she looks away again, shutting herself out somewhat.

"No, I know what you're saying. And…I think that too." I smile even though she can't see it. "I think that every day, too. It's good and bad. It's bad and good. And I'm glad we met the people we did. You're…reaching out into the world. You started conversation and told Harry about your addiction. I'm so…so proud of you." I reach out and set my hand on her wrist, and she looks back up at me.

She throws herself into my arms and hugs me for a long time. I shut up and let her cry.

* * *

_March 20__th_

_ …I'm still leaving. _

_ I talked to Harry, Delilith, and Joe today, and they'll help him through this. He'll go to them because Harry knows about me and Delilith sells books and creates permanent art and Joe's like a bartender, but armed with coffee. He'll be okay. I know he'll be okay. I just need space, but I won't be coming back. I…yeah, I won't be coming back. He'll be fine. He'll be fine. He'll be fine._

_ I'm assuming you want to know what my note will be. It's just this, this thought that popped into my head:_

_ I'm not giving up, I'm giving in._


	10. And I Feel So All Alone

The door unlocks, and I step in, stretching again to expel early-morning sleepiness. I ruffle my hair with my hands and then straighten it out to look presentable, opening my tired eyes and wondering why Strawberry isn't right in front of me or with her arms wrapped around me. I sniff and walk up to her stairway, leaning forward and bracing myself on the railings.

"Straw, get up!" I say loudly, listening for an elongated groan which translates to "I don't want to fucking get up come here instead" or an actual "Come here", which usually means she's feeling bad, or the shape of Straw to pop out from somewhere with tea or a hug.

But she doesn't. _Strange,_ I think.

"Straw, c'mon, don't mess with me."

Nothing, again. I sigh loudly and jokingly, walking up the stairs and into the kitchen. There's no teapot on the stove or anything. And no dishes in the sink—she hasn't eaten yet.

I fill the teapot, turning the stove on as well and sliding over our two mugs from father down the counter, pulling off my messenger bag and setting it on the table without looking, walking to the living room, shouting, "Straw" and "Straw get up" over and over again as I walk to her room.

It's empty. She's not there. Her blanket isn't there, and everything seems…off. There are things missing. Why are there things missing? The door to the bathroom is closed, so I knock on it before opening it and peeking in with a concerned look.

Nothing there. Her shower curtain is wide open, and everything seems… Wait. Her toothpaste and toothbrush is missing. I open the door all the way, standing there for a moment, running my hand through my hair again, narrowing my eyes and trying to piece this together.

"Strawberry, there's _tea._ Fucking _tea._" My shouts seem to not go anywhere.

I open her closet and glance in there, going out into the hallway again and to the spare room, looking in that closet and even under the bed. I'm in the living room, looking under the _couch._ I'm downstairs, weaving in and out of the shelves at least five times before I realize I'm panicking. I'm really panicking. There's too much missing, what's going on? Why isn't Strawberry anywhere I look?

I can't think of what's right in front of me.

When I'm back in the kitchen I turn off the stove and then just stand there.

"Straw, get the hell out here. You're scaring me." I say.

Of course there's no answer.

Dashing around her house I'm yelling her name over and over, looking in impossible places while trying to keep my head. She couldn't be. She _couldn't _ be. Straw, where in the fucking _hell_ are you?

I end my chase in the hallway leading to Straw's room, where I just stand there. I rub my eyes and tell myself to wake up. _Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up, Oncey, wake up. Wake up._

_Wake up, fucking wake up, get up, get up, wake up wake up wake up wake up—_

I'm nearly pulling my hair out, now, trying to keep myself under control. _Wake the fuck up, Oncey, you asshole. Quit doing this to yourself, now GET UP._

I stop telling myself to wake up for a moment, squeezing my eyes shut and then removing my hands from my hair, opening them and expecting to wake.

Instead there's an envelope.

There's…an envelope. It's…taped to a picture of Straw and I. it's really small, but she liked it nonetheless, buying a cheap frame and hammering a nail into the wall and putting it up for people to see—not like any person would see it, but…but yesterday she was reaching out and I could finally see people seeing this picture. I thought that maybe soon she'd have the wall full of cheap shots framed with cheap frames, not just of me and her, but with her and other people, too. Her and Harry. Her and Delilith. Her and Joe.

It says "Oncey" on the front in Straw's handwriting.

Suddenly there's nothing else but the envelope. I'm reaching out to it, and then it's open, and then I'm pulling out the slightly crumpled piece of paper, crumpled like it was ripped out of a notebook in a rush.

"_I'm not giving up, I'm giving in._"

And then I realize she's gone.

_Straw's_ gone.

Before I know what's happening the floor comes up to an uncomfortable closeness and I'm curled up. I'm frozen for a moment until I'm crying. Then I'm sobbing uncontrollably and I can't stop, I can't stop. My hands claw at the carpet and _she's gone she's gone_ and I'm all alone and I can't stop crying, and I can't control myself. I can't control myself, and I can't stop crying, and I'm all alone. _She's gone_ and it feels like my fault and I know that _somehow it is—_she's going to die because of me because I won't be there and I don't know where she is and I just want to _fucking die_ but who will take care of Straw? What will she do without me, what will _I _do without _her_ in my life? _Drag your lazy ass off the carpet and be a man_, but I know I can't because I already can't stop myself so I'll just _lie here._

_I'll just lie here._

* * *

_ This is really great. One of the people I've met and who's given me what I've been so fucking deprived of gave me an empty diary they've kept but never used, and now, Diary, I am free and happy and I feel like I'm floating on a cloud and I'm not even thinking about Oncey because he'll be fine because he has…he has Harry and Delilith and Joe and he'll be fine. This is all one big paragraph but who cares? _

_I'm gone. I'm gone and this feels great, I feel great, my senses are heightened and someone's driven me all the way to Montana. Isn't this great! I'm high and happy and free and I feel like the hippiest any hippie has ever been. I'm back with my dudes and it's all awesome and groovy and far out and look—I've got my lingo back! Oh, diary, this is amazing. Amazing, amazing. If you could feel this, I'd let you feel it. I would switch places with you. You know I would. And did you ever notice that your pages are beautifully made? Look at all this, all this…wondrous paper. It's not just paper like normal people think, it's WONDROUS paper! Wondrous looks beautiful on this page. I hope that everything is wondrous with you. I have to go now because we're at a concert and it's going to be great, just going to be great! Everyone's high and happy and content with the world, this WONDROUS world, and I wish Oncey could see me now._

* * *

_…You know, it was almost days before I could bring myself to do something other than sleep. The constant pestering from the Lorax had finally brought me to a sitting position in my bed. I still wasn't talking. He _did_ bring me things to eat and I would occasionally snake my hand out from underneath my blanket and snatch what I'd want and slowly eat it throughout the day. Otherwise I…I was a wreck, a complete and utter wreck—a complete slob. _

_I hadn't showered in days and my hair felt like the plastic hair from dolls and my face felt tight and molded since all I had been doing was sleeping. I didn't see why I even brought myself into that position. I was just staring at my sheets, crumpled up to one side of my bed and slightly hanging over, almost touching the floor. I was just staring at it, thinking of—what else?—Straw. Again. Like every waking hour and the smatterings of nightmares and dreams I had been constantly receiving. And then when I woke up all of the effects hit me and I was crushed again under the weight of the world and it just beat me on the inside until I submitted and drifted back into sleep, and, as usual, into nightmares and dreams or blank sleep, which I sometimes thought was worse. _

I don't know why I'm thinking so much, but I guess it's better than getting up. It takes too much work and I don't see the point in it—in anything. Why does everything have to be so _fucking_ hard? Why…why did Straw leave? Why did she leave me? Why did she have to give in to her addiction?

_I'm not giving up, I'm giving in. _

I'll just let that run through my mind. It's not like it's going to go away anytime soon—no, who am I kidding, it's not going away_ ever_. It's never going to leave because things can't be unseen. No matter how much I wish it, things can't be unseen. …Or can it?

It takes me a while to actually form the letters of the words of the question I want to ask, but then I get to thinking that I don't need to ask it and what's the point of it?

The Lorax walks up and begins talking again and I see where I can reply without bringing anything onto myself. He says, "When are you going to get out of bed? You need to get out and _do _something." I can tell he's a little angry. Why bother being angry? We're all going to rot in hell, so why put it off? I hear him talking, still, but I'm not listening.

"Can you make me unsee things?" I cut him off in the middle of one of his sentences.

He stops for a moment, uncrossing his arms.

I say it again, "Can you make me unsee things? Can you make me not remember Straw?" My face is expressionless, and I stare at him, waiting.

"…It doesn't work like—"

"Of course. 'It doesn't work like that.' Of course. It doesn't work like that because you don't feel like doing it, because you don't want to." Despair crawls its way into my heart, and I stare with cold eyes at the Lorax.

He sighs. "Look. It's not your fault that Straw left. She left because she couldn't let go of her addiction—her body and mind couldn't take it, alright? I know she's the type of girl who wouldn't usually give into things this serious—"

"_You_ know she's not that type of girl? I was more of a friend to her than you—all you did was spy on my life, and I don't fucking appreciate that. It's rude and impolite and downright unfair. Just because you have the abilities that 'don't work like that' doesn't mean that you can show it off and meddle with my life. And why are you here anyway? Just because I haven't been out in _days_ doesn't mean that if you leave I'm going to chop down a tree. I promised, or do you not remember?"

I stop there, just averting my eyes from him and shutting myself out of the conversation. I hope what I said hurt. I hope what I said hurt so he'll stop spying on me every second of every day. And I'm sure he has the abilities to watch Straw, too, but if I ask him he'll be like, "it doesn't work like that," and I'll be left with nothing. I don't even want to ask—I…dammit, I know it'll hurt too much. So screw him, the spying so-called "guardian of the forest".

He says, "I do remember. And I'm not staying here to—you know what?" I can see he uncrosses his arms again from the corner of my eye. I'm staring at my blanket again. He sighs and I can hear that he's getting angry—then I know that I hit something. "I'm going. If I'm as just a pest to you as you are to me," _he's bringing _himself_ into this? _"I'm going. Goodbye, and good day."

Something inside me snaps, almost, and I lift my head and spit out, "What, are you going to leave me, too?"

He pauses. All the anger drains from his face and is replaced with sympathy. I can feel the same with me, as well as tears welling up in my eyes again, and I try to fight them off with my remaining anger. "Are you going to leave me so I'll die inside and just be a shell? Is that what you're going to do? Is it?" I can feel the tears begin to fall. "_Is it?_"

He walks over to me when I tangle my fingers through my hair and bury my face in my hands. I wrap my arms around my knees and cry, and I feel the Lorax's presence beside me, lingering. All of this hurts—everything _hurts_. I can't take the feeling that Straw's out there and having god-knows-what done to her, or doing things risking her life to get what her body now can't live without. Once it gets a taste again she'll be pulled back in, and it makes me feel like the slime that comes out of lakes that I can't do anything about it.

Through my sobs I confess to the Lorax, "I love her."

"I love Straw and now there's nothing I can do about it. There's nothing I can ever do to make up to how I let her go like that."

"I'm worthless, I'm slime, and I can't take it. …I can't, I can't…"

It feels like forever until I calm down enough, the Lorax standing there with one hand on my arm as a sort of consoling action because he can't exactly hug me very well, and he knows I need my space. When I lift up my head to look at him my eyes are drooped and all I want to do right now is go to sleep.

"You're not going back to sleep."

I wipe at my eyes. "Why?"

"Because we're going to visit Harry."

* * *

_alright, here's a couple of things i want to ask:_

_did i convey Oncey's depression enough?_

_should this have been longer or shorter?_

_was the transition between Straw leaving and Oncey in his depressive state too abrupt?_

_thanks, and please review! i'd love some constructive criticism!_


	11. Shake Me Down

The Lorax doesn't even bother with asking me to shower. Instead he shoves a hat on me and makes me get a new shirt and pants before going out, which I'm not proud to say, takes a while. As I'm walking with the little furball at my side I try and keep myself out of my thoughts, but then it gets too hard and he has to bring me back to reality rather than allowing me to wade through my sadness and distraction. And this isn't a good kind of distraction, either, like with Straw—this is a depression-like distraction. This is not a good distraction. I can't think about Straw, so I find good distractions.

We turn onto Holland Road, and for a moment I stop in my tracks. _I need to get out of here. I can't be here. Run away, run like a bat out of hell, Oncey. _

But I don't, and the Lorax stops as well and turns back to me. "You okay, kid?" he asks.

I don't say anything, and the impulse to _run like hell_ comes back but I don't make a move. I start to lean, but when I realize that it's not going to happen I just stay where I am. He waits patiently, but I can see his worry. I swallow and close my eyes, taking a deep breath and then letting it out. I slowly open my eyes, and then I slowly take a step forward. Then another. Then another and I'm walking past the Lorax and in the direction of Harry's thrift shop.

I can see the colorful front of Harry's thrift shop before the Lorax and I actually arrive: a turquoise of a sort, but chipping and in need of a re-paint, exposing the white once underneath. From the outside it looks small, until you're inside, and then it seems to stretch back forever. When I walk in the door creaks, and I hold the door for the Lorax, and he quickly walks in.

I'm wearing the loafers Harry recommended for me, something that I think will make him happy. The sun from outside leaks in through the slightly foggy windows onto the racks upon racks of hand-me-down clothes, and I walk in after the Lorax, shoving my hands in my pockets, nervous and wondering if Harry will even care. Anyway, I don't even know what I should say to him. Why did the Lorax suggest I come here if Harry might not even care?

No. Stop thinking.

I swallow, venturing forward and all the way to the back of the store. There's a curving stairway behind the counter that I think leads to where Harry lives, sort of like how Straw's store was laid out. There's a bell I see on the counter after I look around for a moment, and I see the Lorax looking at me and gesturing to it. After a moment of looking back at him, watching, I sigh and reach over, ringing the bell.

After a moment I hear footsteps from above, and then Harry appears, stepping quickly down the stairs. His hair is blonde and he has a five-o-clock shadow going on, but it suits him. Today he wears a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and old and ripped pants with boots—most likely secondhand. He said last time, "waste not, want not."

When he sees it's me, he smiles widely. "Hey, Once-man. Where's Wild Strawberry?"

_A nickname? Shit. _"I…wanted to talk. Um, man-to-man I guess."

He leans on the counter. "'Bout what?"

I look down at the carpet, and I don't see the Lorax in my peripheral vision, meaning he's ditched me. Of course—classic Lorax. When I'm looking at the carpet, I catch sight of the loafers, and that somehow gives me some courage. "About Straw. She's…gone."

He pauses, narrowing his eyes for a moment. "Gone?"

"She left."

He smiles his sideways smile a bit. "You're kidding." He says. I'm still staring at the loafers, silent. Then he realizes. "You're…not, are you?"

"She's gone." I repeat.

Harry doesn't say anything for a while. Then he swallows and stands from leaning on the counter. "Come upstairs, man. I'll get you something to drink."

I don't argue or anything, just follow him up.

We emerge into his living room, with a green couch and a few other chairs huddled around a television. They're old and obviously second-hand, but I guess that's how he works. The wallpaper in here is intense and some kind of abstract pattern I can't quite describe.

"Sit…just, like, anywhere you want, man. What do you want—coffee, tea?" He asks.

I slowly plop myself down on one side of the green couch and lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Um…coffee." I mumble, forehead pressed to my palms.

He nods and walks off to the kitchen; it's a visible counter across the room that looks very organized, with a fridge, that has a smattering of photographs stuck on it with magnets, shoved back into the corner. Nothing is on the counter, really.

"Big coffee drinker?" He asks, peeking back over his shoulder as he makes the coffee.

"No…I'm…more of a tea drinker, really." I look up for a moment, hands hovering in front of my face so I can plop my forehead back onto my palms.

He nods, letting the coffee start for a while, and me to put my forehead back in my hands, before he asks, "So, how did you feel about Straw?"

I let out a long sigh. "I know I….loved her. I guess." He knows and I know I should say more, but I pause anyway. "I was her friend for a long time, and I've helped her through her addiction…at least…until…now." I stretch my sentences out, like I might be able to put off the effect of mentioning Straw and remembering Straw.

He walks into the room and pulls up one of the old chairs so he's a little closer, but gives me my space. "What do you think made her…leave?"

"She had an episode a few days before, and before she met you. She almost gave in to her addiction. I was really scared and she started shouting at me after trying and failing to lock me out. I thought that I'd lost her and that's what really scared me, what made me worry the most. I felt like… It hurt, what she said, but I knew that she had to get it out for me to actually comfort her, and afterwards, I did." I sit up and lean back in my chair, still slumped over and avoiding Harry's gaze, but at least I'm talking. "She mentioned…she asked me why I couldn't have met someone else. Why I chose to be her friend instead of finding someone else. That's…what still bothers me. It keeps me up and it haunts me when I sleep, and it hurts."

Harry swallows. "Maybe this has caused you to have…you know, depression. I wouldn't be surprised."

I nod. "Yeah." I get a little distant for a moment, thinking of Straw, but then his voice brings me back.

"Once, if you need to cry, I'm your man." He holds out his hands for a moment and then clasps them together, looking at me with a worried look.

"I've already cried." I say simply, staring at him with a deadpan expression.

He looks down at the floor for a moment, and then gets up to check the coffee. I close my eyes as he does that, my mind, no matter how hard I try, going back to Straw. Punching myself because I didn't tell her I loved her. But maybe she would have left anyway. Was it my fault? Was it the addiction? What _was_ it?

When he comes back I feel his presence and open my eyes, looking up at him. He stands about five feet away, and without thinking I pull myself out of the chair and walk over to him, wrapping my arms around him and launching into an all-out sob.

* * *

It takes me a while to peel myself from Harry and actually start making sense. When I finally pull away I sit back on the couch and start rambling off how I miss her _so, so much_ and how I want her back and _I don't even know if she's alive or not_ and _what is she doing? Are the things she's doing good, are they bad?_

But Harry seems to have some kind of degree in Understanding Useless Abandonment Rambling and he gives me lots of advice on how to keep myself distracted and telling me that whenever I need a man to talk to, he'll be here.

Before I leave, I tell him that he should go into psychology. _Be a counselor._

I almost want to go back to my house, but something tells me "go see Delilith".

So I do.

The door to the shop rings when I open it—she has these little wind-chimes taped to the door. There are shelves upon shelves in here, all squished together, but with enough space so you can actually get through the aisles, but only single-file. This is the kind of bookshop that, if you're stuck in an aisle with another person that wants to get past you, you get within _you're-in-my-bubble_ distance with them. But all of the books sound beyond crazy, but interesting, and you pretty much have to buy them. And then there's the odd stuff she has in one part, just in front of her tattoo parlor—things you'd find in variety shops.

I see Delilith with her feet up on the counter, nose in a book. Her hair is shoulder-length and black, hair tucked behind her ears. Her feet are bare, and she wears bell-bottoms and a striped shirt. She doesn't glance up at me, which means it's probably a good book or she doesn't want to be bothered.

_If she doesn't want to be bothered, then go. What's the point?_

I curl my hands into fists in my pockets, closing my eyes for a brief moment and then opening them again and bringing up courage and walking up to the counter and standing there like a creep.

"Hey, Delilith." I say after a moment.

She immediately looks up and smiles. "Well, it's the skinny Thneed kid. What was your name again?"

I smile back. "Once-Ler. Call me whatever."

"Alright, Whatever." Her smile quickly turns into a smirk.

I smile wider. "Nice." I allow myself a little laugh, but it quickly fades and I can see she looks a bit confused.

"Where's the tooty-fruity? Strawberry—_Las Fresas_." She brings her feet from on the counter and stands, shoving a bookmark in between the pages of her book and setting it down, afterwards leaning against the counter, green eyes locked on mine.

"Um…I wanted to talk to you about that." She's interested and her eyes lock on mine and show no sign of giving up. I swallow.

"Is she…dead?" She asks, looking shocked for a moment and really worried, leaning off the counter, ready to come give me a hug.

"What? No, no. No, just…" I pull my hands from my pockets and wave my hands to further show I'm a complete weirdo. I allow a faint smile. "She's just…she—"

"Left?" she asks.

_Can she fucking read minds or what?_

"…Left." I finish for myself. I have the urge to start crying again but I push it away, back into the depths of my mind. I swallow again. "Why…"

"Do you think she left?" She asks—more like answers. "Look, Whatever, I can see the depression all over you. That shit will eat you from the inside out."

I'm slightly confused. "What do you mean?"

She sighs, walking around the counter and ushering me to a seat in the corner with chairs. When we're situated, she starts to explain. "Depression is like…a baby. Or a pet. It needs to be fed and cleaned and loved. You feed it by thinking negatively and getting distracted and pitying yourself and losing all hope. If you lighten up, you'll hopefully starve it. And if you don't get better and get worse, it'll lead to things that will feed it more until it's scooped you out from the inside and left you like a shell. It'll keep you from doing things you want to do, at first, and then what you need to do. I don't want that happening to you because it happened to me. Then I found this shop—this is what helped me."

I nod, soaking up her information and feeling a little better.

"Now, about Straw leaving. Why do _you_ think she left?"

"She…she was addicted to marijuana." I tell her straightforward. Well, as straightforward as I can get.

She looks worried and like she feels sorry for me. "That changes everything…" she whispers, pulling me into an unexpected but quick hug before explaining more. "Alright. Addiction…it can be handled at first. You can still get away from it. But…how long was she addicted?"

I close my eyes for a brief moment, again, expelling any urge to cry. "Before…before I met her. Which was last summer—late summer."

"So she's been off and on, or?"

"…Yes."

"And then you came along and after you found out you tried to keep her off of it."

"…Yes. And it worked—but then she had an episode where she tried to lock me out and I tried talking to her and she kept asking me why I chose to be her friend and—"

I stop because I almost can't take it. I lean forward and dig the heels of my hands into my eyes, like that will keep me from crying. I take a deep and shaky breath, and then exhale it quicker than I probably should have. I feel a hand on my back and then Delilith pulls me into a warm hug.

* * *

_please review and tell me what you think! constructive criticism always welcome!_


	12. Right Before My Eyes

Delilith hugged me for a while. I guess being hugged twice in one day helped, because I feel better telling them about it. And after I stopped hugging Delilith and she gave me a last word of advice ("Come back. You need company."), I decided that since I've visited Harry and Delilith that it'd be good to go see Joe. Tell him. See how he'll handle it, even if at all.

_What if he doesn't want you there—what then? _

I try not to listen to that. When I'm talking to someone it stops, but then if I'm unsure about anything the voice comes right back and nags at me, pulling me back towards isolation and _what's the point_ statements. I need to stop. I can't let myself do this anymore. I'm starting to notice that I stink a little and with my hat and unshaved face I look like some dirty, depressed, over-dressed-for-the-weather hippie. Maybe talking to Joe will help. He'll put the voices at bay, at least.

Joe's coffee shop is small, with a variety of old chairs, old tables, and old games thrown haphazardly together that look like they're from a variety of antique shops. The chess set out in the open on the table in front of the only couch looks slightly pitiful, some of the pieces broken in places but glued together lovingly. It looks like he takes pride in this place.

It isn't busy when I walk in. An old cowbell tied to the doorhandle signals my entrance, and the three other people turn their heads. Two guys and a girl. Both guys have beards and look like twins. The girl has hair down to her thighs. We nod to each other and then they go back to their conversation about what coffee each of them got. Joe has the radio on, "Love Hurts" by Nazareth playing. I groan inwardly. _Thank you, universe. Thanks a lot._

Joe turns to me when I come up to the counter and smiles widely. His brown hair is wild and unruly, and he wears a worn t-shirt and blue jeans. "Hey, Once—have a seat. Let's talk." He gestures to the counter, where tall chairs and stools are set up.

I sit down at the counter and he crosses his arms. "So, what's happening?" He asks.

I shrug, scratching the back of my neck and stalling for a moment. "I wanted to…talk about Straw." I say it slowly, tentatively.

He nods. "What about her?"

"Um…" I begin, stalling some more. There's a long bout of silence between us. "Um, she's gone. And…I need help." My voice pitch raises as I talk and I swallow, trying to piece myself together and trying to think of an answer to what he's going to say next, if anything.

"…Gone? For…how long? What do you mean?" He asks and then politely waits.

"I don't know where she went. She just…up and left and…" I laugh once, nervously, and shrug, taking a deep and shaky breath. _He wants to know—he wants to know, which is good. Don't doubt yourself. Don't doubt anything right now. You don't need that._

"Was…there something wrong between you two? Weren't you guys going out?"

"There was an addiction and no, but I wish I had told her that I loved her." My answer is rushed but it gets the point across, even if it confuses Joe slightly.

"Addiction?" He asks, more to himself than anything. He lowers his voice—not like anyone would hear it, but you can never be too sure.

"Marijuana." I say quietly.

Joe still has his arms crossed, and he brings one of his hands over his mouth, taking a deep breath and trying to take it all in. "But…she…"

"Doesn't look the type to do something like that? Yeah." I look him straight in the eyes. "I didn't think that, either."

He still has his hand on his face, and he swallows. He slowly takes his hand from his face and repositions his arms so they're crossed again. "What do you think made her leave? What were you doing to help her?"

"I…pretty much I went over to her place every day. To..distract her from her addiction, I guess. She'd develop these little habits, but I knew they were better than the alternative, so I just rolled with the punches." I bring my hands up from my lap, clasping them together on top of the counter and wringing them nervously. "She tried to lock me out a few days before she met you, and…when I got in I tried to talk some sense into her and she just started yelling and venting all her pent-up anxiety and…" I shrug, shaking my head and staring at my hands.

"You think it's your fault, don't you?" He says, looking worried.

Swallowing, I say, "Well, yeah. I didn't stay over that night, and I think that if I was there, I'd have stopped her and actually brought her to an actual doctor."

He almost cuts me off. "Once, no. Just because you could have doesn't mean it needed to happen—"

"I don't know where the_ fuck_ she is." I lower my voice even more (more like trying to). "I can't _fucking_ find her. All she left was a note that said 'I'm not giving up, I'm giving in' and I don't know what she's doing or even if she's dead or not and that's going to kill me inside because I can't see where everything is, I'm not some omnipotent being—I just don't know what to do with myself because I'll just keep worrying and worrying and worrying about Straw because I've lost the only girl I've gotten close to and the only girl I've ever loved and it—it _hurts_—" Stopping myself, I realize how close I am to crying again and I take a deep breath and run my hands over my face in an attempt to put it at bay. No voices yet, but they're starting to come back, _talk to me Joe, please._

I feel his bony hands on my shoulders. "Once. You need to branch out. Get more friends. Come here often. _Please_. A lot of people come through, and some of the stories I hear—some of them are addicts, too, who ran away. I'd talk to them, and a lot of them had families, loved ones who they thought were holding them back. Loved ones who I knew just loved them more than they knew. People that could forgive and forget. I'm sure, wherever Straw is—and…and dead or not," his breath catches slightly, "she's somehow thinking of you. She might be thinking 'thank God I'm away from him', but sooner or later she'll hit rock bottom and maybe, just maybe, she'll realize." He pauses. "Do you think she's dead? Like, right now, do you think she's dead?"

My hands are back on the counter now and I slowly look into his eyes. "…No."

"Intuition. Us guys, we have intuition, too. With the help of whatever shit we have in our brains, we know some things. And just keep thinking, keep knowing she's out there, alive. No matter what she's doing, just keep feeling that feeling. Feel that she's still alive… Okay?"

I nod, stunned by the lecture. But he has a point, and a hell of a good one. "Okay." I say meekly.

He nods, and then turns around, making me a cup of coffee. This friend thing….this could work. This could really work. And…I know Straw's alive. Out there, whatever the hell she's doing, she's alive. And I love her and I wish her all the luck of the world.

_And the voices didn't come back for the rest of the night._

_Jade, the girl who has given me my fix, has been so, so nice! There are at least three others here, three other guys. One of them has taken a liking to me and in whatever town we've come across he's taken me for a walk through the whole town and so far has bought me a jacket and a nice, second-hand blanket. He's such a nice guy—his name is Ace. Ace! It sounds classy and like he's from some cool sitcom on television. I don't know exactly how far we've gone, but we're heading to someplace on the west coast. It's going to be crazy and fun and I'm so excited! We have enough marijuana to last us a lifetime. I can't lose these guys, they're so nice and they'll protect me, I know they will. Especially Ace. _

_ Ace is sleeping beside me with the cutest look on his face—oh, his hair is this feathery brown and even if it's unruly and everything, it's so, so soft. He usually wears bell-bottoms and no shoes—no shoes! His feet are always dirty, but he thinks really deeply about everything around him. he accepts the insults people throw his way, and he's mentally strong and everything and I admire him so! _

_ Ace. Ace, Ace, Ace._

_ It's at least midnight, Diary. I should go. _

_ We went to another concert today! We happened upon it and when we found out it was free we were so excited! Everyone was at peace with everything and I could see so many bell-bottoms and bare feet I went along with it and I felt at home. The sun was shining and it was so pretty and I just soaked in the music and I just let myself melt in with everyone. I love the world, and most of all, I love the guys I came with. _

_ Diary. Oh, Diary. _

_ They left me here. They fucking left me. Before I went to sleep Ace was there beside me, feeling my hair and telling me how soft it was. Then—bam. I wake up and I'm alone with one of the people helping to pick up poking me until I woke. _

_ Bastards. I thought Ace really liked me. I thought he did! And now they've left with everything I had, except for this blanket and the clothes on my back. I had money in my backpack and more clothes, too. All that, gone. They even took my shoes, too—my SHOES!_

_ This place is in the middle of nowhere, too. I guess I'll stop venting and find someone to hitchhike with. _


	13. Recovery

_Hitchhiking proved to be worth it. A guy named Stefan stopped next to me on his motorcycle and offered me a ride. So far we've traveled a few hundred miles. When we stopped at a gas station so he could get gas he pulled out some marijuana and he gave me some, too—he said it makes the trip "less boring". He has these windswept curls for hair—he calls it his "moss"—and these dull blue eyes. I really hope he doesn't abandon me like Ace and Jade and the others did. _

Joe invited me to stay the night. It took me a while to get to sleep, though, because of all the coffee he made me—but last night I think really, really helped. The sun's out and I think that it's probably ten-o'-clock now. I feel tired still, but I sit up and stretch. Joe's place is behind the coffeehouse kitchen, housing a bed and a closet and couches and chairs. It's a bit cluttered, but I guess he must like it that way.

Joe is splayed out on his bed, arm slung over his face to block out the sun pouring into the room from the window to the right of his bed. He sniffs and clears his throat, adjusting himself so his back is turned against the sunlight. I sit there for a moment, taking in the quiet morning. And…today it feels like I'm better than all the days before now, the ones after Straw left, especially. When I think of her name I don't feel that burrowing emptiness anymore. I know that Harry and Delilith and Joe are here, and they'll support me. Harry the thrift shop counselor, Delilith the tattooed bookshop prodigy, and Joe the skinniest vegetarian and the only coffee bartender I've encountered. I really don't feel so alone anymore. I feel right again, not so...overturned by the recent chain of events.

I run a hand through my now-messy hair and stand, going over to John's mirror that looks like it got punched once, because of the small spiderweb crack in the top right corner, and smooth out my clothes the best I can.

I see that Joe sits up like someone's just dropped a bucket of water on him, and then when he turns to look at me he relaxes. I smile at him, looking at him through the mirror. "What, did you think I was some burglar here to steal your beloved coffee?"

He laughs once. "Naw. Well…maybe a little." He stretches and gets out of bed, clad in boxers and his shirt from last night, pulling on some pants he pulls out of his closet.

"What do you have to eat?" I ask him, turning from the mirror.

He shrugs. "Um, coffee. And some cereal. And lots of soup."

"Soup?"

"It's good. Kind of the most popular food I have on the menu and everything, so I stock up on it."

I shrug. A few minutes later he's standing, leaning on the counter, I'm sitting on one of the stools at the bar, and we're both listening to the radio and eating the tomato basil soup.

"Thanks for last night." I say, pulling up my spoon again and eating some more soup.

Joe swallows his mouthful of soup. "Yeah, no problem, man. You needed it."

When I leave Joe's around lunch, I decide to retrace my steps—meaning I'm back through Delilith's bookshop/tattoo parlor doors right after.

She's still there, dark hair hiding her face and nose in a book. I smile to myself, walking up to the counter and laying my hand right on top of her book.

Delilith looks up at me with annoyance at first, but when she realizes that it's me, she smiles softly. "Hey, Once. You look better."

"I talked to this guy named Joe—owns the coffee shop, you know?—I went there and talked it out with him and slept at his place. It…helped." I explain, shrugging to punctuate it.

She nods, smiling wider. "Great. Glad to see you look back on your feet." She tucks her bangs behind one ear. Her hair is cut very haphazardly, but it gives her the grunge look that adds to her attitude.

I tap my fingers on the counter in a bored rhythm, and I can see the worry still in her eyes, like she's thinking this might be a fake happiness. And maybe it is. Maybe I'm letting myself think that I'm all better when I'm not.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks. "I don't want you letting me thinking you're okay and then having you go off and run away to find _Las Fresas_ or something." I know she was thinking of saying "or finding out you killed yourself".

"I'm…fairly sure. I guess I should just say that I feel better. Not completely, but better than before."

"It doesn't hurt so much to talk about Straw?" she points out in a question.

I nod. "…Yeah. It doesn't hurt so much."

"It's the Once-man! Back for Straw advice or fashion advice?" Harry does his signature sideways smirk when he arrives at his counter, shoving his hands in his pockets. I noticed that the place was closed but sure that he wouldn't mind of I dropped in.

I smile as well. "I felt like dropping by. Last night I went to this one guy Joe's place—"

"The one with the coffee shop?"

"Yeah. He's like a bartender, but with coffee. I stayed at his place last night and when I woke up…"

"Epiphany?"

"Epiphany."

He smiles, laughing to himself. "You look better. At least, better than the shell of a man that walked through my door and hugged the stuffing out of me."

I laugh, too. "I miss—I missed her, okay?" I retort, catching what I said.

Harry's caught it, too. "Dude, you can still miss her. I mean, my man is like across the country for college. His parents don't like that he's gay, especially his mom, and his dad is sort of okay with it." He shrugs, mumbling about how he's sorry for rambling.

"No, it's okay, man. I don't mind."

He nods. "You don't seem like the type to care." He invites me upstairs and he lounges in his chair and I on his couch again. He takes a deep breath and sighs, and then says, "Alright. Hypothetically here, what would you do if she came back?"

I shrug, staring at a spot on the wall. What _would_ I do?

I begin with, "I don't know…" and then continue on after a moment of silence. "I would…fucking cry, man." I smile slightly. "I would cry and then hug her. I'd…I might get up the courage to, like, kiss her or something, you know? One of those cliché things."

He nods. "Keep that", he taps his temple, "up here. It'll keep you sane. I keep on thinking of what I and he are going to do when he comes back again—when he finishes college. But I know that I don't miss you as much as you miss Straw. I can feel it."

I swallow. "Yeah." I feel that emptiness for a moment, and then I come back to earth. "I wonder if she'll ever miss me as much as I miss her."


	14. Trapped & Visiting & Memories & Escaping

_ It's sometime in June. My hands are shaking badly because Stefan and I, we've…we've gotten into something bad. Not drugs, just…he thought these guys were his friends but all they've been doing is threatening me and Stefan's gotten all the heat because he's been protecting me because I know what they'll do to me. I know—I do, and it scares me to death to think about it._

_ We're in the basement, that's for sure. We have one window (that's the smallest thing ever), a small bathroom, and a few mattresses. His friends seemed nice at first, but they're so very badly addicted to drugs and booze that they do it all the time and they got hostile and have been keeping us down here. But Stefan's kept me safe. He…reminds me of Oncey. _

_ No. I can't let myself think that right now. Concentrate on what's going on. Keep yourself in the present. I need to go because Stefan's standing up and telling me to get ready because he hears them. _

* * *

_ Stefan's still trying to make a plan. We've tried some things, and so far, none have worked. Been a few weeks, now—Stefan's started to look horrible. He looks calm and collected, but I know he's hurt inside as much as the outside. They're always in the kitchen, and, if not there, in the living room, where the only close door is. I've been pushed down the stairs and I think that one of my fingers is sprained or broken. It hurts and this whole situation sucks, Diary. _

_ But one of them has seemed to take our side. He's this bigger guy, but seems to have an inner teddy bear or something. Usually wears t-shirts, especially Led Zeppelin. He's nice enough to take us food every day when the others are distracted and doing…whatever they've been doing. (I really, really don't want to think about it.) He's also been the one who supplies us, but I'm getting tired of it because even if it calms me down, I'm still so paranoid that it hurts. Same with Stefan—when he's high he'll sit at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide and looking up at the door—the second one to our freedom—and it scares me._

_ The guy hasn't told us his name yet, but I hear calls of "Drew" when he's down here too long. _

* * *

_ We're getting out. Drew promised us. We're getting out. We're getting out._

* * *

"Have you heard anything from Straw?"

I glance up from a book I bought from Delilith's store to see her standing at her counter, a hardcover book laid out in front of her. She has her head cocked slightly to one side, cheek squished against her hand. She's wearing a short-sleeved shirt and I can see the tattoos that snake up her arms.

"Nope." I reply. I feel slightly worried again now—haven't thought of her for a while, been so occupied with hanging out with Harry and Delilith and Joe that all the good memories I've been making have distracted me far from her.

"What about her shop?" Delilith asks. "She owned one, right?"

I nod, worrying a little more. _What should I do about her shop?_ "Yeah, she did."

"Do you think it'll be, like, foreclosed on? Shut down?" she asks, putting her bookmark in her book, closing it, and walking over and sitting in the bean bag next to mine. She looks at me with worry.

Worry snakes into my expression as well, and she pats my arm. "Want me to come with you there?"

With my nod she closes her shop, making a "be back in five minutes" sign and walking with me to her shop. When I'm at the door, I stand there for a while before reaching up and fetching the key, opening the door, walking in and seeing all the ghosts of the memories of Straw and I feel that hole again. I still miss her. Of course I do, I miss her just as much as the day she left.

I bring my hand up to my face once I slowly make my way up to the counter with Delilith trailing behind me, having no idea the effect the ghosts are having on me. I take a deep breath through my nose and close my eyes, taking a moment to just let them run their course, and I'm brought back to reality and I open my eyes when I feel a hand on my arm.

I look over at Delilith with her worried but comforting smile, and I sadly smile back. "Sorry, just…"

"No need to be sorry." She pats my arm, walking ahead and up the stairs, and I follow her, not sure why I'm going up there. She must think that this is good for me, to relive what I've done here, to remember again for a while.

When we get to the kitchen, she allows me to walk around and straighten things up, taking a look at things I remember, smiling to myself and then trying not to cry. She follows me through the rooms and I whisper explanations to her, memories I have of Straw and when we get back to the living room I tell her the story of when I realized Straw left. Taking the note from my shoulder bag and shakily handing it to her, wondering why I carry it everywhere.

Hugging her back when she hugs me.

* * *

_I don't know where I am, but I know I'm in a hospital. Fucking car crash. Stefan and I escaped with the help of Drew and when he drove away the other guys chased after us and then the next thing I remember is waking up to some nurse waking me up and giving me some pain pills. I have a broken wrist and cuts on my face and especially on my arms and sides because of a window cracking on me and me laying through a broken window when everything finally stopped. At least that's what they told me. Car rolled like three times. The other car was totaled and the guys are being arrested. Cops came in, talked to me and Stefan… _

_ Stefan's….alright. No, that isn't the word. Whenever he hears a noise he'll jump up and nearly give the nurses a heart attack. He's…not quite right, at least for now. I hope it changes. I think just the whole experience with the guys have gotten him so stuck to the pattern of "hear a noise, it's them" that it'll take time with others to break it. _

_ Drew's…dead. I'm sure he's watching me write in you. Wondering what could've happened if he were alive. I'm sure we'd be friends. He seems like the guy who'd treat you like a sibling no matter what. _

* * *

_ I need a fix, man. Stefan and I are just itching for one, I can tell. We keep asking the nurses when the hell we're getting out of this place, and they just say "I don't know" or "soon". It's kind of pissing me off. _

* * *

_ Alright, so this police guy comes in, right—looking all police-y with his gun and his aviators and his cop mustache. He pulls up a chair and takes off his aviators, looking real serious. _

_ We're going to rehab. Fucking. Rehab._

_ We don't want to go there. We're fine. The drug is just an escape, we're not addicted. Just because this happened and just because some machines or doctors say so doesn't mean we're addicted or we need help or we need people. We don't need people. We have ourselves; we just chose to be alone with each other. We don't like the world, okay? We don't need rehab. We don't need rehab._

* * *

hello, it's me again! i just wanted to know if you liked how i've been doing Straw's diary entries, and if i should change it in any way, etc. also, make sure to point out any grammar mistakes and everything for me! it'll help me make this story better.


	15. Dreaming Dreams

I wake up—I feel slightly weighted with missing Straw. The sun comes in through a crack in my curtains and it falls across my chest, across my hand lying there. I close my eyes again and know that I can't get back to sleep. When I open my eyes again I stare at the ceiling for another moment and then lug myself out of bed, walking over to a mirror without a second thought. It's broken like Joe's, and I take a look at myself and wipe my eyes. When I open my eyes again, I'm actually at Joe's. Seeing Joe behind me startles me, and I turn around and then it's Delilith's place, and I'm facing her counter, watching her read a book. I take a startled step back, tripping backwards and then I'm on Harry's couch, hearing him snore.

I blink and then again I'm in a different place. It's night this time. I'm lying there and staring at the ceiling, I realize…I'm at Straw's. My body moves without my permission, turning to the side, facing where the door is. My movements feel tired, like I've been asleep, or I'm half asleep.

There stands a sideways Straw. She freezes at my movement, eyes wide, but then relaxes after a few seconds. _My eyes are open—why can't she see me?_ She walks out of the room, and I notice a backpack over her shoulders, and she wears her large jacket and her favorite loafers. She's going somewhere.

I'm able to get up. Thing is, when I get up and turn towards the door, I see myself still lying there, but my eyes are closed and I'm obviously sleeping.

Then I know this is the night Straw left.

When I realize, I look over at Straw standing in the hallway, scribbling on a piece of notebook paper and stuffing it in an envelope and taping it to the glass shielding the picture. I panic inside, wanting to rush over and keep her from leaving. Somehow, I need to stop her. She can't go. She can't leave. That's not what she'd do, this is just…

I walk over to myself when Straw disappears down the hallway. I stare at myself for a moment, reaching out with both hands to wake myself, but they just disappear through my face like I'm a hologram. I quickly bring my hands from inside my face, and then I'm running into the kitchen. Straw's still here—good. She's grabbing some stuff and shoving it into her backpack. She picks up her tea cup, pauses, and then slowly sets it down again. Her fingers linger on its surface.

I open my mouth to say something, but then I feel a body rushing through me and then I feel solid. I must be back in my own body.

My whole attitude changes. I feel disbelief and I feel scared and I'm just freaking out. "Straw, what are you doing?" I say. My eyes go up and down her figure, taking note of her loafers and her jacket and the backpack she has in her hands.

Straw whirls, and her tea cup spins, knocked off balance and the sound of it balancing itself again fills the silence. Her eyes are wide and she looks as if she's in a defensive pose. Her eyes snap to where the exit is and then back to my face.

I swallow, feeling my face become flushed. _She was going to run. She was going to run. _"I said…"I pause, feeling my voice quiver, and dive back into my sentence. "What are you doing?"

Her wide blue eyes watch me, scared and frightened and laced with worry and maybe even some sorrow. She doesn't speak. I watch her when her eyes flicker to the exit again and then back to me.

I see her move and then we're both running for the exit.

Even though I'm running as fast as I can, she snakes just ahead of me and jumps down two steps at a time and taking a flying leap down at least five more to the bottom level. I jump down just after her, and then I grab her backpack. She drops it and turns around slightly—she slows down just enough so I can wrap my arms around her thin figure.

She tries to wiggle out of my grasp, and I can hear her cries of protest in my ear and her hands claw at my back. She tries every mean of escape, but I just keep holding her close; it takes her the longest time to calm down. I'm standing there and taking the heat, keeping my mouth shut and trying to keep from crying. She was going to run. She was going to run. And it kills me inside.

When she does calm down, I don't let go of her. Her fingernails are digging into my arms and my back but she doesn't say anything, either.

I begin. "Why?"

"Let me go." She says again. I can hear the strained stiffness in her voice. She's trying to keep her cool. "Let me go. I can't let you see me like this, this is too much for me and I know it's too much for you. I can't do this, I can't." the words tumble from her mouth and the stiffness she's trying to keep slips a few times.

I hold onto her tighter. Her fingernails dig deeper into my skin, begging for me to let her go. But I know if I do, I couldn't live with myself. "But I can get you to a real doctor—they'll help you, you can go to rehab. Please, please…" I can't keep myself collected for a moment, and let out a long, shaky sigh.

Moving my hands up to her shoulders and clutching them tightly, I pause for a moment. "I love you, Strawberry."

I pull her from me, eyes closed. I wait for a moment and then open my eyes—but then I see her disintegrating through my grasp. I blink, surprised, and take a shaky step back, mouth open for an unknown reason, watching her disappear, as well as everything around me. I curl into myself, bringing my hands over my head and going to my knees.

My eyes open.

I'm sweating and the whole dream hits me fast. I'm lying in my chair at Straw's place and—glancing over at the clock—it's one in the morning. I slowly sit up and bring my knees to my chest, closing my eyes for a moment and then taking a deep breath, exhaling shakily. Waking up feels so surreal. Waking up from something like that makes me feel like it's stabbed me in the back. Betrayed me. _Something._ I bring my hands to my face and cover my eyes, continually taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself down. If only I was at Harry's or Delilith's or Joe's place (Delilith left me here alone when it got too late. She asked, "are you sure you're going to be okay?" and of course I said yes.) I wish she was here, but I don't think I can form words…

_Why can't Straw be here? Why didn't I wake up and stop her? I could've told her…I could've told her I loved her… I still do. I want to find her—I need to find her. _

I roll over that thought in my mind. _I need to find her. _I step off of the recliner_...Find her._

After locking the door of Straw's place, I walk briskly to my house. It's empty, but I see the usual Bar-Ba-Loot as I walk to it. The slight rain falls down at a lazy, slow pace.

I bring out one of my suitcases, packing fast. Once I'm done though, I stand there for a while, staring at the suitcase.

_What am I doing?_

I plop myself down in a chair nearby, hands covering my face. I can't leave—what was I thinking? I can't just go out without a lead. What if she comes back and I'm not here? What if when she leaves to find me, I'm back? Some endless cycle I'd not like to start up. Not ever. I wouldn't allow Straw to feel at fault because I'm looking for her. Something inside me just wants to stay rooted to this place because of Straw.

Then again, she could never come back.

I take a deep breath and expel that thought out of my head. _Remember what Joe said. Feel she's alive._ C'mon Oncey, you big dumbass. Wherever she's at, she's alive. _She's alive. She's alive_.

Wiping my face I bring my hands together underneath my chin, closing my eyes and exhaling. The dream runs through my mind again.

I don't sleep for the rest of the night.


	16. Birthday Cupcake

_It's been two years but for some reason it feels like two months. Stefan and I have finally gotten a shop. We promised each other that when we got out of rehab we'd start our own business and he'd get a car and then he'd take me back to Oncey. So far, everything's gone according to plan. We set up shop in this dinky little town where nobody locks their doors and everybody trusts everybody, but it's homey and I think it's found a place in my heart. _

_ Rehab was at first tolerable, but then the people there became as close as family. There were young people like me, even younger if you can believe that, and then there were people as old as my parents would be and even older, it was amazing. They all treated me nicely, and not just the residents, but also the staff. They were kind and helpful and in half a year Stefan and I were well enough to go._

_ We almost didn't want to go, you know. It hurt to go, actually. For both of us. I cried, actually. I wished them all good luck and then Stefan and I, with his gigantic jar of change he scrounged up from wherever he could find any, walked out both happy and sad._

_ Stefan and I have become like siblings. He runs the food, I run the drinks. It's a partnership, a companionship, that's almost as strong as me and Oncey had. …Anyway, Stefan and I have got enough saved up for that car. I'm excited, but then again I'm scared out of my wits. What if he isn't there? What if he's moved on and we never really, truly become friends again? Then this'd all be wasted, wasted, wasted, and I'd eventually crawl back into the hole that is drugs. Looking back in you, reading you over, Diary, I see things that I can't have written, can't have done. And I think the biggest thing that feels so surreal, not truly history, is that I left Oncey all on his lonesome, expecting three people we just met to take care of him. And maybe they have—maybe they haven't. I'm even scared that when I get back I'll find out something's bad happened to him. And I know you know what I mean._

_ Stefan and I are busy and I need to make coffee for the old man who's a regular here (and yes, I've started making coffee. It's as calming as tea and I love the taste of it). All I can do is hope and dream about Oncey and what the hell's happened since I abandoned him._

It's been two years.

Two years that went by way, way too fast. When I remember pieces of Straw, and I try to remember how it felt when she left, it's all fuzzy. It's all fuzzy like it didn't really happen.

All four of us meet regularly at Joe's coffee shop—I mean Delilith, Harry, Joe and I. Every conversation is gold, and we make jokes regularly, but there's that occasional serious one that gets us all emotional. Everything's good.

Haven't even tried selling my Thneed since I'm in charge of Straw's shop now—and it's been a trip. People have asked about her, and I tell them that I don't know where she is and nothing else, but I've enjoyed talking with the customers and taking care of her shop. Some nights I'll sleep up in the recliner like I used to, but it comes with the side effect of staying awake and thinking about Straw. Although now, when I stay there for the night, it doesn't happen anymore. Well, not often as it used to. Everything's good.

But everything's not good. I still can't get over Straw. I _still_ can't get over Straw. Some days I'm so occupied with everything, moving, thinking, breathing, that I don't think about her. Other days I'm left with nothing and I can't stop thinking about her, because when I try and start something to keep me moving, thinking, breathing, I completely lose motivation. And sometimes I put myself down, thinking about how much I've been teased and told I couldn't do things, how I couldn't make myself anything. Thinking about my mother and knowing she's probably never thinking about me at all, attentive to only my brothers, as usual, who haven't probably been out of the house at all since I've left—how they decided not to go to college, and mom didn't care. She laughed and cracked a joke when I left—typical. And I beat myself up repeatedly, and wondering again what my life would be like now if I hadn't met Straw.

But I miss her. I miss her so, so much. I want to see her face, I want to hold her close, I want to hear her voice…I just can't get all that from the pictures of her. Sometimes when I sleep at the Shop, I'll sit in the recliner with the picture from the hallway in my hands. I'll sit there with it, examining it, making sure that I don't forget her face—some nights I won't sleep; some nights I'll fall asleep with it in my hands; some nights I dream about her like I did that one time. The dreams are always different, but they are the same in the way they always hurt. They reach into my chest and asphyxiate my heart, they always _hurt._

But today's my birthday. I'm twenty-two. Think about today. Think about today. The past is done, Oncey—over.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and sigh—I open my eyes to the sights and sounds of Straw's shop, with no customers. I can feel the weight of the silence, and I feel that feeling creeping up. Self-loathing, the like. I try to push them down, keeping myself occupied by going over to the record player and pulling out a Pink Floyd record and playing it quickly, losing myself in the lyrics.

I stand and immediately step back and almost fall onto the record player itself when I see that Harry, Delilith, and Joe have appeared in the room.

Harry laughs and walks over, pulling me into a tight hug. "Happy birthday, Once-man!" he says, laughing as he pulls away and pats me on the shoulder.

Delilith holds a bag and a few nicely-wrapped boxes when she hugs me—one of them I absolutely know is from Harry, because he's wrapped it with the comics section of the newspaper. "Happy birthday," she says softly and nicely, her one free hand patting my back and she gives a quick peck on my cheek when she pulls away.

Joe gives me a surprisingly bone-crushing hug, and when he pulls away he's laughing. "Happy freaking birthday, you big weirdo."

I look to see Harry locking the door and Delilith taps me on the back and holds out my jacket to me. It's no sooner that we're walking down the street to Joe's place for lunch. I can see that his coffee shop is closed for the occasion. Joe immediately starts making coffee and the rest of us sit at the counter. Delilith, after setting down the presents to the side, goes into Joe's fridge and sets down a cupcake in front of me. It has a note pinned to it with two toothpicks, saying "happy birthday, Oncey!"

_I looked up at all three of them and smiled. I felt another feeling creeping up—that feeling that you know that everything's going to be okay. That you know something good is coming—that something good is always coming, no matter how you feel, no matter how many other bad things have happened to you. Like when you read a book or a quote someone has said that just hits you right where you needed it. It's the feeling that nobody feels anymore. That _I _don't feel anymore._

I take off the note so Delilith can put the candle in the cupcake. Joe reaches over and lights it. Harry watches from over my shoulder, and I can feel the smile on his lips—on all of our lips. Mutual happiness and excitement.

"Make a wish." Delilith urges me on.

"Okay." I think for a moment.

_Let this last._

I blow out the candle.

Just when I know everyone's going to start clapping, we all hear the door opening. I glance back and then freeze.

_Hair that's blonde, pin-straight, cut straight at the bottom, no bangs._ I stand after a moment. _Blue eyes._ I slowly step away from the counter so I can get a clearer view of her. I almost can't believe it.

_Straw's back._


	17. Cuddle Fuddle

For a moment all that's running through my mind is _"Straw is back."_ Over and over again—_"Straw is back…Straw is back…Straw is back…" _And then it turns to, "Hey, dumbass—_move!_"

So I'm slowly taking steps so I can get a clearer view of her. _No…it can't be her…can it?_ I ask myself. I don't even pause; I'm just taking slow, very slow, steps in a sideways direction. I'm taking in her eyes—_looking at me with desperation and worry and wonder_—her hair—_clean-cut; definitely longer_—and lastly, her attire—_her loafers are gone; she has a suitcase tucked underneath one arm and the hand on the same arm holding another; she's wearing shorts and pitiful sandals and her Led Zeppelin t-shirt._

I stop when I'm directly in line with her sight. Straw smiles at me, a small, worried, maybe even a little scared, smile, but to me it's the most beautiful thing on the earth right now. She slowly sets down her suitcases and stands there for a moment, waiting for something. I'm not sure what, but it's something. I can tell she feels like the worst human being for leaving me—her hands keep clenching and unclenching, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. But I don't care about that. She's back. She's _back!_

I start walking towards her. Very slow at first, and she does too. Then we're in each other's arms, hugging each other tighter, like we're going to lose each other again. For a moment it's only me and her. There's no building, no smells, no thoughts. Me and her. Straw is back. I can feel her beginning to cry, and I feel myself doing the same. _Crying like that makes me feel so happy. It's the weirdest feeling a person can have, crying when they're happy. It's sort of an oxymoron, maybe even ironic, but it's somehow amazingly calming. I don't think I've ever felt that content. I don't think I ever will. _

For some reason everything becomes even slower as the dumbest thought pops into my head and it turns into an action when I pull away and bring my hands up to her face. She looks me in the eyes with a questioning look, and I don't know what I'm doing before I do it, and then our lips are locked in a kiss.

Then another trail of thoughts are going through my head: _"I'm kissing Straw. What the hell are you doing Oncey? Quit it! No wait, no. She's kissing back. Oh my god. Oh my god she's kissing back what the hell do I do where do I put my hands what do I do—"_

I feel those thoughts running through and through my head, trapped, but I just keep my hands on her face and my feet planted on the ground. Straw brings her hands from my back and they stray into the space between us before I feel her fingers curl into my vest's pockets.

When we pull away I hear Harry let out a whistle, Joe start clapping, and Delilith say loudly, "Nice one!"

But I'm concentrated on looking Straw in the eyes. Both of us are smiling and I wrap my arms around her again for another hug.

* * *

_holy hell that was short. but i guess i just wanted this out of the way so then i can just transition better or something. and i'm like, out of inspiration._

_i hope to have the next chapter up soon! feedback is appreciated!_


	18. I Want to Buy You Something

I intertwine my fingers with Straw's as we walk down the road to her house.

Two weeks. Two weeks since Straw's come back. Two weeks since I've kissed her. Two weeks and we've been dating.

It's weird to tell people we're dating. It's not like they ask, but…it's weird to _think _it, I guess. And it's awkward, too. Straw and I have been going out to eat things and to shop each day, and we have fun, but…when we get alone I just feel…I feel like I need to um, tell her everything on my mind. Is that how dating works? You tell the other person everything? I don't know. I just feel like we have nothing to talk about so we just distract ourselves by going out and doing things. It's like being together alone is an addiction, and we need that distraction. No…I shouldn't compare dating to _that…_

Straw nudges me with her elbow. "You okay?" she asks.

I look at her. "Oh, yeah—sorry. Just a little distracted."

"Want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. "No, it's nothing. Just daydreaming." _Smooth. You just avoided it _again._ When are you going to actually _talk_ to her about it?_ _When are you going to actually talk to _her?

"Okay." She says. Her hand squeezes mine, and I can't help but smile.

Her hand feels warm in mine, and when I squeeze it I can feel her heartbeat. It's fascinating, really—attraction. When we want to be with someone. It's like a mental form of gravity. Something nobody can really understand.

We arrive at her house and she releases my hand to reach up for the key on top of the doorframe. She unlocks the door. She grabs my hand once again and we go up her stairs. I let go of her hand again when she fills up her teapot and begins to make tea, and when the tea's all done we go to her living room and we sit down on her couch and we watch TV. Straw's leaned against me and I have my arms wrapped around her, one hand holding my teacup and the other messing with her hair.

After the tea's gone cold and the show's over, I look down to see that Straw's asleep, her right hand knotted together with mine and her left splayed over her stomach. I take her to her room and then go down to her shop and open it for the day.

I sell two records and a package of guitar picks before she comes down, dressed in shorts and tights, oxford shoes and a Pink Floyd shirt. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. "You could've waked me up."

"You were completely oblivious to the whole world. Why would I want to take that time away from you?" I smile at her.

She walks over and nudges my shoulder. "So," she begins, "sell anything?"

"Two records and a pack of guitar picks."

"What records?" she walks past me over to the shelf of records. She flips through them.

"Another Pink Floyd and a Led Zeppelin."

"Good." She smiles. "Any used records come in?"

I nod and point by the front door. She walks over and pulls the box from the ground, walking over with soft steps on the bland carpet and setting them on the glass counter in front of me. I flip through them, each one softly falling on the one before it. When I'm almost to the back I find a Frank Sinatra record. I pull it from the others and let the ones I've flipped through to fall against the last few.

I smile to myself, about to turn to Straw. "Hey, look at this—"

"Excuse me?"

The voice startles me, and I look up to see a woman standing at the door.

With…my….Thneed…around her head.

My breath catches in my throat, and I halt all movements. My frozen hand catches the record that falls from its case, and I stare at her with silence.

"Do you know where I can buy this?"


	19. But I Don't Have Any Money

I blink. I swallow. "Um," I begin. I slide the Frank Sinatra record back in its case and set it down on the counter. "I…made that."

The girl nods. "Uh-huh." She pauses, and then walks up, pulling her wallet from her back pocket. "How much do you want for it?"

I glance back at Straw, and she just raises her eyebrows at me and gestures at the woman with her eyes. I turn back to the woman. She's flipping through her bills. "Uh, look, they're only—"

"Is there more?" Another woman rushes through the door and up to the counter, beside the first.

"Uh, no, not now, but there will be—"

"I'll give you a hundred for it." She interrupts.

The other looks offended, and adjusts my Thneed on her head. She looks at me, shoving a handful of bills towards me. "A thousand."

"Uh, girls, wait." I push the girl's hand away. "They're only $5.99… And…she can have it because she came to me with it first."

The girls exchange glances. The one with my Thneed on her head counts out the money for it and hands it to me. I give her the change.

"I'm going to make more, don't worry." I tell the other. "I'll like, have a sign out front when I have more."

I pause as she looks at me almost sadly, and then she smiles. "I'll be back." She leaves as quickly as she came.

I swallow again, and slowly turn around to face Straw. My face is relatively straight for a bout of silence, and then I smile and wave my arms repeatedly, randomly, sporadically, and I wrap my arms around Straw and lift her into the air, spinning her around. "OH SWEET JESUS." I say loudly into her ear. I set her down and shake her shoulders. "Do you know what this means?" I ask her.

"Calm…down…what does…it mean?" she replies between shakes.

"I'm gonna prove my family wrong." I say. I stop shaking her and my breath catches in my throat. "I'm…I'm gonna prove my family wrong." I grab the sides of her face, kiss her quickly on the lips, and then run over to the phone by the door.

After a moment's hesitation, I dial my home phone number. Before long I hear the all-too familiar, shrill voice of my mother.

After my phone call with my mother I walk up the stairs to find Straw curled up on the couch, holding a cup of tea, legs tucked underneath her. Walking up to her, I cup my face in her hands and peck her repeatedly all over her face.

"Quit it—quit it!" she pushes me away with her elbow. "Quit getting so excited, I get it!"

"No, its just, it's so much more than that." I sit down next to her. She turns off the TV and turns to me, handing me my cup of tea. I hold it in my hands, trying to find the words to explain with. "I just…it's so exciting. I finally get to prove my mother wrong. I can show her that I can be a success. Those girls, they really like it!"

Straw nods. "Weird how things come to be, huh? How did she get that Thneed, anyway?"

I laugh a little. "Oh, I threw it off the last time I tried to sell it. I just got into this fit of rage, and… Hey."

I look at her. She looks at me. "What?" she asks.

"You still have my Thneed, don't you?"

She looks slightly confused for a moment, and then smiles softly. She stands, runs back to her room while I hold her tea, and comes back with it in her hands. "So, you were right." She giggles.

I take it from her hands and wrap it around her neck, and then peck her quickly on the nose. Her giggle seems to echo in the sunlit room.


	20. Bad?

The next day my parents arrive. Seeing my mother's congratulatory smile gives me a sense of pride, but I still have the wariness of remembering the times when she'd ignore me repeatedly. Those still make me hurt, still dig at me from the inside. But it's good that they're helping me, at least. I'm thinking if this takes off enough, I'll start hiring.

And now, a few days later, I'm the talk of the town. People are coming to Straw's shop for my Thneeds and barley anything else, which I feel bad for. I'm thinking of giving her some of the profits, but I'm sure she'll refuse. She's stubborn like that.

When there's finally a lull later in the day, I excuse myself to go to my place and work on designs—I almost hate to say it—for a future factory. I feel like I'm rushing myself, but then I know that I should prepare if it does come to it.

When I get to my house, I immediately grab my tools and sit down at my drafting table. I wipe my eyes and try and get to work. There's too much on my mind, and I need to just calm down for a while.

Just when I start to work, my mother walks up to the window. "Oncey, dear?" she asks in her southern drawl. She looks hopeful.

I twirl the pencil in my hand, looking up and then leaning back in my chair. "Yeah?"

She looks back at where the rest of my family is working, picking the tufts from the trees instead of chopping the trees down. She turns her head back to me after a few seconds. "It's getting tiring to pick the tufts from the trees. And…I was thinking…"

She pauses enough for me to say, "Yeah?"again to keep the conversation going.

"I—we—think it'd be easier for us to just cut down the trees instead, sweetie." she says, adding a large smile afterwards.

I narrow my eyes at her. "I'm not sure I want to do—"

"Come on, it's easier _and_ faster!" she says, pouting and looking at me through her horn-rimmed glasses.

I sigh. A million disregards run through my mind, but all of them disappear when I think of her face if I tell her no. Her disappointed look that tells me I've failed her. The hurtful words that would leave her lips. And then my mouth spits out one word: "Okay."

I feel my mother's spindly arms wrap around me and she pulls me into a tight hug. "Oh, thank you, Oncey sweetie!" she exclaims. Before she lets go of my skinny frame I hear the yelling of the Lorax. When I look over at him, our eyes lock and I feel something hurt inside of me. He spews out words, he calls me bad. But when my aunt steps in between us, blocking my view of the Lorax, it's dismissed and I feel full of pride because of the proud look in my mother's eyes when I pull back and see her face. I feel that deep, dark hole inside me fill a little bit, and it feels good.

I smile absently and watch my mother turn and walk away. I lean over my bed to close the curtains and see the Lorax once more. My smile falls and I glance away as I pull the curtains closed.

* * *

"He said I was bad." I begin. "Am…Am I bad?"

I strum the strings of my guitar as I'm sitting on my bed. Straw sits next to me, legs crossed, shoes off. She shrugs, almost halfheartedly. "Well…you _did_ break your promise to him not to cut down any more trees."

"Yeah, but…but thinking of…" I swallow. "Of what my mother would say to me, I just…it slipped out, and now it's done. It can't be undone." I tilt my face downward and pretend to be immersed in my fingers strumming the strings of the guitar.

She reaches out and I watch her fingertips brush the wrist I'm staring at. "Still," she says, her voice softer than usual, "you shouldn't have gone back on your promise."

I move my hand to the neck of the instrument and look up at her, our eyes meeting. "Maybe some promises are just made to be broken."

I can see a flicker of disappointment in her eyes before she glances over at my clock. "It's getting late. I should be going back." She stands and I put my guitar down, standing and holding the door for her. She pecks me quick on the cheek before leaving.

_Sometimes I think I was holding the door for her to escape from my life. _


	21. Be My Guest

_Just a forewarning: this is a downward spiral. It was a downward spiral from the start, and it'll keep spiraling down. The thing is, I didn't know that just yet. I was ignorant, I was blind because I was distracted by power. I didn't know how much it would hurt. I didn't know how much I would lose. _

I rip open a bag of marshmallows and recline my legs on the edge of my desk, leaning back in my large chair. Staring blankly at the model of the new city that will soon be created, Thneedville, on my desk, I smile at my work as I shove a marshmallow in my mouth.

I hear a knock at my door, and I look up to see my mother come in, holding the door for Straw. She walks over and my mother leaves.

She walks over, grabbing and dragging the chair specifically for her visits over by me. I smile at her after she's all situated, and she laughs. I realize I still have a marshmallow in my mouth, and quickly chew and swallow it.

"How's business?" she asks.

"Fine, still selling Thneeds like hot cakes." I offer her a marshmallow and she takes it, leaning back in her chair. She doesn't eat the marshmallow right away. "You?"

"Pretty good. Your Thneeds there are still selling faster than light, but people buy a lot of the new records."

"Good." I say. I notice she's made no move to eat the marshmallow, and a spark of worry comes to life in me. In fact, she's moved her hands to her lap.

I meet her eyes and hers mine. "I miss you." She says slowly, and I can see the sadness in her eyes.

I feel a stab of guilt and stand, walking over and leaning down to give her a hug. "I'm sorry," I say. I can feel her arms slowly wrap around me. "I'm sorry, but I need to keep this going. I'm sorry for not being able to be with you as much as I used to."

I can feel her nod. "Okay. I'm sorry, I just…"

"No need to be sorry, okay?" I kiss her quickly on her lips and sit back in my chair. We sit in silence and we both snack on marshmallows.

* * *

_My mother frequently interrupted Straw's sparse visits to tell me I have meetings, things to sign, people to meet. The amount of these occurrences increased in number so that I saw Straw once or twice a month. I should have seen me drifting from her. Getting absorbed in making money from my invention. Putting her off to meet powerful people. To get top articles in the media. We were drifting apart and I was too distracted by everything else to see how much Straw was hurting._

_Sometimes I ask myself why I didn't see it. And after thinking about it for how long I realize that I wanted acceptance. I wanted acceptance from society and from my mother—especially from my mother, because all she'd ever done was put me down, and I'd told Straw a few times, and she'd comfort me, but there was always this hole inside me. It was there because I didn't feel accepted by the woman who gave birth to me, the woman who always would pay more attention to my brothers than me. I mean…it was my whole family, but…my mother's words hurt the most. She would repeatedly tell me how much of a disappointment I was, and that just…stuck. Throughout all these years, it stuck. _

_And now I give to you the last time I saw Straw._

Straw walks into my office and I pull some papers towards me, taking them in my hands, looking them over. She comes in and sits down in her chair after bringing it over close to the front of the desk. "Hi, Oncey." She says.

I mumble something indecipherable and bring another paper to my eyes. I can see her shift in her chair in my peripheral vision. She doesn't talk for a while, and neither do I.

She stands after I don't know how long, saying, ":You know what? You're busy. I'll go."

The bitterness in her voice snaps me back to reality and I stand. "No, Straw, wait," I say, walking briskly over to her and grabbing her arm, tails of my coat swishing behind me.

She pulls her arm from my grip, almost cringing away from me. I freeze where I am, and Straw takes one more step away from me before stopping, back to me. I can feel the tension between us grow thick. "Look, Once-ler, you're busy. I'll go. It's fine."

She usually asks me to call to make plans for the next time we see each other…but she didn't. I walk up to her and turn her around, hands gently on her arms. She doesn't meet my gaze. "I know…I know that we haven't been seeing each other as much as we want to. But—but I'm a busy man, Straw! I need to get work done and sometimes I just…I get distracted." I move my hands to her waist.

"I'll just go, it's fine, let me go." She tries to step back.

"Straw, please, let's hang out, I'm sorry that I was so distracted earlier, I really just want to spend time with you right now, please." I move one of my hands to her face and lift her chin to look at me.

Before I know what's happening, my arms are shoved away from her body and a hand brings itself, hard, across my cheek.

I stumble backwards, my back hitting itself against the edge of my desk. I bring my hand to the cheek, feeling it turn warm and red. I look up, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at Straw. The shock stays for a moment, both in me and Straw. When the shock ebbs, it turns to confusion and then, suddenly, anger.

"Why…why did you _do_ that?" My eyebrows bunch together, and I continue to stare at her, unbelieving of what she just did.

"Because you don't love me anymore." She spits out the words like they're cursed. She runs a hand through her hair, quickly and angrily.

"Straw—what? I do, just—"

"Just _what?_ You blatantly ignore me for a couple months and you just expect me to believe that this will change? Give me a good reason why I would believe that!" Her voice begins to raise.

I open my mouth and then sigh, at a loss for words. Anger returns. "You know what? If you want to go, go. Leave. Right now." I wave a hand at the door. "Just go. I don't need a woman coming here every month to _slap_ me."

"I don't come in here to _slap _you. I wanted to see if you'd actually pay attention to me this time, but it seems like I was _wrong._" I can see her face start to turn red, tears threaten to spill.

"Then go! If you want to leave, _be my guest._" I say, the last part through gritted teeth.

"Fine." She sneers.

"Fine!" I snap back. I walk over and pull the double doors open with a force I've never had, stepping out of the way and gesturing exaggeratedly at them. "_Leave_!"

"When this dies, I _won't_ be around to comfort you." She hisses at me through her teeth, jabbing a finger in my chest. I watch her make her way down the hallway and then slam the doors closed, hard.

"Good fucking riddance." I tell the doors.


End file.
